


Concubine

by Quill_lumos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-14
Updated: 2009-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_lumos/pseuds/Quill_lumos
Summary: The magical world is not kind to those who are different, to the creatures who share the magic.  Only cruelty and prejudice await those whose blood is not utterly pure or completely human.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**Disclaimer** I do not own anything Harry Potter, related nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. It all belongs to JK Rowling. Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Brothers and any other entity involved.

**This story has been re-vamped and rebetaed and new chapters are currently being added. I might only be able to update every three weeks for a while at least but I _will_ be updating.**

**Thanks for your patience dear reader!**

 

**Written for thematic_hp. Round 4 Slavery. Prompt 74** \- Draco finds out that he is fated to be a concubine. Not happy with his fate, he tries to escape it as best as he can. But fate/destiny/prophecy (whichever) are tricky things...

 

Thanks to Cyndie Lou for helping so much with the re-vamp. *squishes her*

 

Prologue

 

When Draco Malfoy was seven his father told him that he was special: that it was his destiny to be the consort of a very powerful wizard. To a seven year old, such a thing seemed wonderful; he thought he would be like Lancelot to King Arthur. He and his king would have adventures and slay mythical beasts. They would ride together through forests and meadows, rescue princesses and never be apart. 

He was not allowed friends because he was different, so he grew up lonely and peopled his dreams with heroes instead.

*******************

When he was eleven he learned _what_ he truly was and that the king he would serve was called Harry Potter. His future master had killed an evil wizard when he was just a baby; he was the most powerful wizard in the world. He would one day rule and Draco would be by his side.

But then Draco met Harry Potter and found out that he was neither powerful nor strong; he was a child like himself, scruffy and impish and sparking with life. He despised Draco and rejected him. For a while Draco wondered if Harry knew what he was, and maybe that’s why he didn’t like him. But surely, according to his father, to be a consort, a concubine was a rare and precious thing. He was rare and precious, wasn’t he? 

He tried everything to make his prince notice him, for it was better to be hated than ignored. But Harry didn’t seem to want Draco in his life, however rare and precious he might be; Harry, it seemed, loathed him. In return, Draco decided that he did not want to belong to Harry Potter; he would not belong to anyone. He was a prince in his own right, wasn’t he? He would be brave and strong all on his own.

But his father still asserted that one day he would be bound to serve Potter. There was no choice. It had been prophesied and who did Draco think he was to go against such strong magic? Who did he think he was to reject his destiny?

That was the first time that Draco learned that choice was not for him; he had to obey, first his father and then his master. He had to obey the magic that bound him.

**************

When Draco was fourteen ‘the Dark Lord’ returned and things changed. Draco learned that this mighty wizard, instead of a half-grown boy, was the master he would serve. He had no say in the matter; he was not allowed an opinion, for he was a concubine and his body was not his own. The prophecy said that Draco was to serve a powerful dark wizard… who else could that be, but Voldemort? 

His father had been wrong when he’d thought Potter to be dark. It was decided and Draco was lost. To serve Potter was a fate he could have borne, but to be the slave of the Dark Lord chilled him to the very depths of his soul. He pretended, though, even to himself, that he was as proud as a Malfoy should be to bring honour to his family. He would bring prestige and admiration to his father and his mother, for he was an extraordinary creature. His body would buy their freedom from the Dark Lord and his parents would have another child to be their heir in his place.

***************

His father was imprisoned in Draco’s fifth year and Draco thought that he was safe, that no horrendous fate would befall him now. He could live a normal life, grow up to be an ordinary wizard, marry and have children – surely his mother would not betray him, for now there was no need for anyone to ever know. 

But he was wrong.

He became caught up in circumstances and, in order to keep his mother safe, was forced to try to commit an act at which he could not succeed. He failed, quite spectacularly. Suddenly he found himself on the run from both sides, dark and light. He had hope that he could avoid his destiny by keeping on the run until the war was over.

But he was even more wrong.

***************

When Draco was seventeen he was finally captured by the forces of the dark and  
brought before the Dark Lord, the one who would be his master. Lucius had been freed; he stood proudly beside the one who was to rule them all and freely gave this Lord his only son, seemingly without a qualm. Draco trembled and begged. His stomach rebelled when he was informed of his new role. Concubine did not mean the same thing as Consort and he would not be ruling equally beside a king, as he had always fantasized. For the rest of his life he was merely a toy, a possession – sex slave to the Dark Lord! This, then, had been his father’s plan… this had always been his fate. 

Finally, Draco knew complete despair.

Narcissa’s eyes were red and her cheeks damp with tears when she said goodbye to her son, as his father led her away and out of his life. Despite his despair, Draco was pleased that he could at least buy her safety, for the gift of a concubine of his quality and upbringing was unusual indeed. His existence allowed his parents their freedom, their lives – a luxury that was no longer his. 

He was taken away and prepared to be claimed. He was stripped naked and a weighty collar placed around his neck; he was human no more. The men who prepared him let their hands wander where they would and simply laughed at him and tied his hands when he tried to defend himself. He no longer had rights, he was merely a thing and he would find himself molested like this many times in the months to come.

They petted him and fondled him. He wanted to say to them that he would tell his master and that they would be punished; but when he tried he was spelled silent. His tongue was left, it seemed, because that would be required later in the pleasuring of his master. But his voice was magicked away… he had no words that anyone wanted to hear. They kept his sobs and his moans, oh yes, they left him those. He could still make little sounds and, of course, they kept his scream.

Perhaps if he had turned to Dumbledore, things might have been different. Perhaps he would have been given to someone else, anyone else! Even Potter, even _Weasley_ would have been better than this. He would still have been sub-human but maybe they would at least have been kind.

Finally, after his skin had been scrubbed, and his body examined to check that he was as pure as his parents promised, he was led to the place where he would be claimed.

The Dark Lord had him chained to a stone slab, an alter-like structure. The old Draco would have sneered at such a choice and called it melodramatic, but this Draco, Draco the concubine, the inhuman creature, had nothing to say; apparently he was an animal and animals do not speak.

When he was spread open he did not protest; it was not his place. But he cringed inside at the crude remarks about his body and what a sweet fuck he would make and he watched his rapist move closer through a veil of tears.

******************


	2. Part  One - The Finding

Thank you for everything Cyndie Lou

Chapter 1 – The Finding

Harry stood before a door at the end of a gloomy hallway intently listening to the absolute silence surrounding the old house. It was a very dark night with no moon, which is why they had chosen it to make their assault. Harry knew the wizarding world was expecting him to face Voldemort proudly on the battlefield, but Harry was far from stupid. 

Brave… yes, but brave and stupid… no! 

He wanted the odds to be leveled: the most powerful dark wizard of the age, a man, no, a creature, who knew more dark curses and spells than anyone in existence versus Harry James Potter, good at Quidditch and not bad at Defence Against the Dark Arts but otherwise nothing special. Harry was determined to take advantage the element of surprise and, thus, found himself standing in front of this particular door on this very dark night. He was certain that ‘the power the Dark Lord knows not’ was about to be meted out in the dark bedroom before him and old snake face was going to wake up dead. Perhaps once the old bastard was dead Harry could actually have a future. They all could.

It had taken him and his friends nearly two years to finish the task that Dumbledore had set them, the destruction of Voldemort’s horcruxes. The last twenty months had been very long and hard on them all. They had made little progress in the beginning until, suddenly, anonymous tips were turning out to be major leads. It had been totally mystifying, and not a little spooky, until Hermione had finally figured out that their secret helper was Severus Snape. The ex-potions professor had been helping them for nearly six months before she had learned his identity. Even with his help it had taken time and the death toll had grown ever larger, now to include Luna’s father, Percy Weasley, Professor Flitwick and poor Dean Thomas, murdered along with his family on Halloween something over a year ago. These deaths still haunted Harry, for all he admitted there was nothing he could have done to prevent them.

Harry and Hermione had spent some time convincing the Order members that Snape was still on their side and without his help they would still be looking for horcruxes. The Slytherin spy had been welcomed, if grudgingly by certain members, back into the Order of the Phoenix. Harry, himself, although he still disliked the man intensely, had come to realise that he did at least respect him, snarky git that he was.

They all were here, then, on this final assault against the Dark Lord, in this drafty old ruin of a house in Northumberland that belonged to the Lestranges. All the plans and waiting were over, the time was now. No one else would die because of the insane megalomaniac that was Tom Riddle.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had destroyed the final Horcrux just minutes ago. They had lured Nagini outside and he had cut off her head with Gryffindor’s sword and covering himself, his clothes, and his cloak in her blood in the process. She had a lot of blood. He had been sick afterwards. He hated to hurt, let alone kill, anything but Nagini had to die, as did Voldemort. Order members, Snape, Lupin, the Weasley twins, Tonks, Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall, and several aurors from the Ministry of Magic, had slowly, stealthily overpowered or killed everyone in the house in which Voldemort was hiding. 

It was all up to the Chosen One now. After casting a lubricating spell on the hinges to prevent squeaks, Harry very slowly opened the door and quietly tip-toed toward the bed on the far side. Clutching his wand firmly, he was determined that any sweet dreams Voldemort was experiencing tonight would be his last.

The event itself was an extreme anticlimax. Harry reached the bed and stood looking down with disgust at the hideous creature who had blighted his childhood. He was delighted when the dark wizard stirred and opened his eyes. Harry Potter would be the last sight that Tom Riddle ever beheld.

“Hello, Tom!” Harry whispered. “This is for my Mum and Dad… AVADA KEDAVRA, you bastard!”

And that was it. He was dead. The hideous twisted monster of a creature was, finally, permanently, totally, and quite simply… dead, and without any fuss at all in the end.

Harry stared at the pathetic figure for a few seconds longer hardly believing it was finally over. Gradually he felt a fierce joy spreading up through his body and he couldn’t help himself, he let out a yell of triumph. Suddenly other wizards burst into the room from all sides, running through doorways and climbing in through windows. Torches flared and several people rushed over to the bed to see the dead Dark Lord for themselves. Upon seeing his still form shouts and laughter filled the room with a cacophony of sound.

Hermione glanced around the room, her ever present curiosity in full flood even at a time like this, and froze in place, her face a mask of horror and disbelief. Regaining her senses, she dropped gently to her knees.

“Shush,” she crooned softly. “It’s all right, we won’t hurt you, you are safe now.”

Harry belatedly realised there was someone else in the room. Slowly and carefully he edged around the bed until he could see a pale naked creature curled around the iron bedpost to which he was chained. He couldn’t see the face but there was no mistaking that white blond hair – it was Draco Malfoy.

Harry crouched down now, too. “God, Malfoy,” he breathed. “What have they done to you?” 

A pair of silver eyes stared up at him wide with terror. A mouth opened but did not speak and a pale narrow hand clutched feebly at his robe.

Harry’s own eyes filled with tears as he slipped off the robe he was wearing and covered the trembling figure. Even covered in serpent blood, the young Gryffindor deemed it preferable to the nakedness the other boy had suffered before.

Hermione continued to murmur soft nothings to the terrified Slytherin while she looked at Harry with frightened eyes. Draco wore a heavy collar around his neck that was connected by a link to a long and equally heavy chain. Harry allowed his fingers to follow the length of the chain until he found it was attached to the leg of the bed. A whispered spell and the chain and the collar fell free… but Draco made not a single sound, shivering silently as the cold metal slithered against his bare arm. 

Harry had never seen anything so sad in all his life. He put his arms around Malfoy and lifted him gently into a strong embrace. The Slytherin seemed to have shrunk. Harry was sure he had been much taller than Harry once upon a time. But Harry had grown. Two years of Molly Weasley’s cooking and daily training with whichever Auror he could persuade to help him had made a huge difference in Harry’s physique; he was no longer the slight, scrawny child he had been when he had last seen Draco Malfoy. Even so, could he really be smaller? How could that happen?

The room was silent as everyone watched. No one had noticed that the Malfoy heir was missing, not even Snape. The Malfoys had fled the country months ago and everyone assumed that Draco had gone with them. It had not crossed anyone’s mind that he could be here, not here… never here.

And the creature that was Draco Malfoy hid his face against his protector’s shoulder and longed to speak. He would not say much, just two words. He would say ‘thank you’, if he could.

Harry took his precious burden to St. Mungos. The wards and the halls were stuffed with victims of an attack that had taken place on Hogsmeade just the day before. Some of the wounded called out to the saviour, obviously not knowing the war was finally over. Word had not spread, at least not yet. Harry was still covered in Nagini’s blood as was the cloak covering Malfoy’s nudity. A rather harassed mediwitch rushed over the minute she noticed Harry. 

“Mr. Potter! Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” Harry said rather shortly. “I’m fine but Malfoy here, he needs someone to look at him.” 

She conjured a floating stretcher on which he tried to deposit his burden. But Draco wouldn’t let go. He whimpered into Harry’s chest, sounding like a small animal in pain rather than the proud young man he should be. Harry leant over him and whispered gently that it would be all right, that he would stay, when all at once it was as if the hallway exploded with noise and laughter.

Fred and George Weasley apparated in from nowhere, exploding Filibuster Fireworks all around them and creating panic in the crowded hallway. The rather frosty mediwitch turned to scold the pair. But when they shared their news, which spread like wildfire throughout the entire hospital, she, too, was dancing for joy like everyone else. One of the twins grabbed Harry in his elation and swung him around and in the confusion Draco was whisked away.

It took Harry nearly two hours to find him again… and in such circumstances that he was experiencing unaccustomed rage on behalf of his erstwhile enemy. It appeared the young Malfoy was no-longer in St. Mungos; instead he had been apparated to St. Ignatius, where cases involving magical creatures were handled – because, as the mediwizard who transferred him pointed out, “He is a magical creature Mr. Potter, sir. He isn’t human!” It would be quite a while before the man was back at work considering the strength of the Bat Bogey hex that struck him.

When Harry did finally locate him, he discovered that they had put him in a cage. Harry was told that he wasn’t allowed to remove him because he was an unclaimed concubine.

It was then Draco held out a pale arm, covered in bruises, and showed them the mark that decorated his pulse point. Harry’s eyebrows did a Snape as he gazed at what was apparently the Potter crest decorating Malfoy’s wrist. This seemed to confirm the concubine to be Potter property after all and Harry was allowed to take him away, after the proper forms were filled in and signed, accepting ownership.

Harry could not remember ever being so confused and angry at the same time. He did not understand the references to being a ‘concubine’, at least not in the wizarding sense, but he was going to find out. Hermione was sure to know. One thing he was sure of, however, was that calling Malfoy, or any person for that matter, not human made his blood boil.

Harry apparated them both back to Grimmauld Place. It was still grim and incredibly derelict in many places, but it was infinitely better than that be-knighted place they called a hospital.

He took Draco upstairs to his bathroom. That and the adjoining bedroom were the only rooms that Harry had made any effort into making cozy and comfortable. These rooms were his place of safety, his sanctuary.

“I’m so sorry, Malfoy,” he told the blond boy as he gently eased him into a bath filled with bubbles and healing herbs. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I am going to find out and when I do I’m going to kill someone!” 

He gently sloshed water over the open cuts on Draco’s back and the wounds on his thighs and buttocks. It was easy to tell, even for Harry, that Draco had been violently beaten and raped, and fairly recently, too. Harry knew that he was pretty innocent when it came to sex, he had only had two relationships, one with Ginny Weasley, which never went very far really and one with Seamus Finnigan who had the somewhat dubious honour of being able to claim to have taken Harry’s virginity.

A little of the grimness left Harry’s eyes as he remembered his one night with Seamus. He had wanted to be relieved of his virginity so that, in case he died, he would do so knowing the pleasures of sex. He had trusted Seamus because he was an avowed slut with lots of experience, and he had promised to gentle (which he undoubtedly had been). Harry shook his head, bemused by his own weird logic. Or may be not so weird in the end as afterwards Seamus had been surprisingly discreet. He had told Harry that it was enough for him to know that he had popped Harry’s cherry, he wasn’t about to tell the world, and for that Harry would be eternally grateful.

But as Draco let out a hiss of pain Harry wondered if it were possible to Ennervate Voldemort so that he could kill him again.

“Shush, Draco, you’re safe here, no one can hurt you any more. I’ll look after you!”

_‘I’ll look after you’_ – where in Hades had that come from, and he had called Malfoy ‘Draco’. What the fuck was going on? Not having the time to ponder this, Harry shoved these thoughts away for later consideration.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, and when Draco nodded, “Right then, I’ll call for some help.” 

Harry assisted Draco out of the bath and bundled him up in some old pajamas of Dudley’s. They were threadbare and worn and dwarfed the blond boy, but Draco sat and stroked them as if they were made of the finest silk, a look of wonder on his face.

By the time the two entered the bedroom Dobby had produced some soup, placing it discreetly on a nightstand beside the bed. After being tucked comfortably into one side of the bed, Draco tried to eat the soup but seemed too weak to hold the spoon; he made no protest as Harry picked it up and fed him.

It wasn’t long before the young man’s eyes grew heavy with fatigue and he started drifting off to sleep. Harry placed the empty bowl on the nightstand and climbed into the bed. They curled up together and Draco snuggled up against him holding on as if he were a drowning man. Harry wondered to himself if perhaps that would have been a kinder fate.

**************

Harry woke the next morning to the sound of Hermione’s voice. 

“Harry,” she whispered. “Are you in here?”

Seeing the two boys curled up on the bed she crept closer and sat down on an adjoining chair.

“The world has gone mad out there. Everyone is celebrating.”

“What happened to him, Hermione?” Harry said with his eyes full of tears, he was singularly uninterested in the celebrations. “Why did nobody even notice he was gone? They said at St. Ignatius that he was a concubine, that he isn’t human. How can they say he isn’t human? I don’t understand!” 

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Oh, Harry! Poor Malfoy.”

She drew closer to Harry and they spent some time whispering together and wondering what it all meant. Eventually they checked that Draco was indeed sound asleep and they tip-toed out of the room and headed off downstairs. 

Ron was making some tea.

“Hey, mate, what’s up?” he asked. “What’s going on with Malfoy?”

Hermione answered him, “Harry thinks that Draco is a concubine, Ron.”

Harry was sure that Hermione was just as stunned as he, himself, was when Ron began to laugh.

“It’s like this, mate,” Ron said when he had calmed down enough to speak. “Concubines are magical creatures, not fully human, a bit like Veela I suppose. It’s not that surprising considering his cousin is a metamorphmagus, but it is rather funny that the half muggle got the glory and the pureblood got to be a mere creature!

“You see, they can both transform; a metamorphmagus can change at will and be whatever he or she wants, but a concubine can’t. They are bound to a master and they change into whatever form their master, the dominant sexual partner, wants them to be. They are not considered human because, once bound, they no longer have free will – they become whatever their owner most desires, _when_ their owner desires it. You killed his previous owner so chances are he’s yours, mate. You lucky bastard, Harry!”

During this recitation Harry’s face had paled and his eyes had widened in horror. He wondered if the shock he felt at Ron’s words was as evident on his face as Hermione’s was on hers.

“Ron, I think you are being a little insensitive…” Hermione began.

But at this point Harry exploded, “ _A little insensitive_ – you are behaving like a dickhead, you prat! Malfoy has obviously been raped and beaten repeatedly; do you seriously think that I would want to force myself on him right now? Or _ever_ for that matter?”

“But, Harry, he isn’t human,” Ron whined. “Sex is what he’s for!”

Harry threw him out. He was so angry, so infuriated at what Ron had just said that he dragged his oldest friend over to the fireplace, threw in some floo powder and gave him one final shove while shouting “The Burrow”.

Hermione looked furious. “I will kill him, slowly, Harry,” she promised. “I will find him and make him so sorry for being such a selfish, insensitive, pureblood git!” 

She looked at him then, her chocolate coloured eyes full of concern. “Will you be alright? Will he be alright, do you think?”

“I don’t know, Hermione, I really don’t. I just can’t believe Ron’s attitude. Draco has obviously been severely beaten and raped and Ron just thinks it’s funny; the mediwitches refused to treat him, the whole world seems to have gone mad. They all think he isn’t even human… it’s so awful.”

“I agree with you, Harry. I thought the treatment of house elves was bad enough, but this? It’s barbar…”

But whatever else she was about to say was lost to posterity as the peace was shattered by a piercing scream.

****************

When Draco awoke he was surprised to find himself in a bed. He hadn’t slept in a bed for a very long time; he had often been fucked in one and then kicked onto the floor, but he had not lain on something so comfortable, so safe, for months and months. And he was wearing clothes! Draco didn’t remember the last time he had worn clothes – well, actually he did, but he didn’t like to remember… he had been human then, after all, and now he was merely an animal.

Even St. Mungos had thought that. They had sent him away to the creature clinic and put him in a cage. Draco had spent a lot of time in cages over the past year, or chained at the foot of his master’s bed. Nobody had spoken to him the way that Harry had last night. He didn’t count as a person anymore. Voldemort had told him that often enough. 

The Dark Lord delighted in taking him on raids to Muggle homes, having him crawl behind on his hands and knees, naked and on a leash. As the monster tortured and killed his hapless victims, he would enjoy telling Draco that he was considered a murderer for what he was doing to the Muggles, but that as master of a concubine he could do whatever he liked to Draco. He could do it in public if he liked and no one could stop him. No one would bother because Draco wasn’t human; Draco was only property, like a pet. Draco was less in the eyes of the law than even ‘Muggle scum’.

He delighted in offering Draco around his inner circle, too. Offering his arse or his mouth as a reward for good service. Of course, he had not done that to start with, not when Severus was still on the scene. It was not until Severus had defected to the other side that Voldemort had started passing him around – and for that Draco could not help but be grateful because at least his godfather had not seen what he had become. Well, not until last night, anyway.

He had been told time after time that he was not human and his body had been forced into all sorts of contortions, different shapes and sizes, as his biology required him to become whatever his master for the night most desired.

Voldemort liked him small and skinny, which accounted for his very slight, boyish physique at the moment. He didn’t know yet what his new master would want of him, but… the bath, the clothes, the food… Draco hoped desperately against hope that these things were a sign that Harry would at least be kind sometimes.

Tears sprung to Draco’s eyes when he thought of himself as a child, imagining that he would be a companion to a king. When in reality, he was a pet, a toy. Draco despaired; even though Harry had been gentle tonight, it wouldn’t last… it _never_ did. As soon as his rapists discovered the different shapes that his body would assume at their will, they became ever more inventive, depraved and cruel. Would Harry be like that, Draco wondered, when he knew what Draco was really capable of? 

With eyes closed he rolled over in the soft sheets and suddenly came to the realization that he no longer wore a collar and chain. So this was what it was like to be unfettered? It had been so long. Smiling, he allowed himself to luxuriate in it, this feeling of freedom. But then he opened his eyes and found himself confronted by a house-elf, standing directly in front of him. He screamed.

Voldemort had had elves, a whole group of them. They had become as twisted and cruel as the dark lord they served. Voldemort loved using them to torture Draco and they loved accommodating him. They were especially vicious, even more vicious at times than his human masters. Most of them had belonged to pureblood families before entering Voldemort’s service. Draco looked sufficiently human for them to receive great pleasure in taking out their revenge on him for the suffering that they had endured over the years. They used him as a target for their hatred and he, in turn, had grown to fear and hate them.

Draco hurled himself out of the bed and somehow managed to press himself flat against the wall, as far away from the hideous little thing as he could get. Legs trembling to the point of collapse he waited, for when Master came he would be punished. He knew this. The little creature would hold him down and use it’s magic… Oh Merlin, it would hurt so much! Draco didn’t think he could stand it.

But the next thing he knew he was being held in strong, powerful arms and Harry, for it was Harry, was shushing him, telling him he was safe, that no one would hurt him here. Unable to control himself any longer, he began to sob with dreadful abandon.

Harry held him. He just sat and held him. He didn’t force himself on Draco, or hurt him, or let the elf torture him. As dawn broke on the longest night that Draco had ever known and tendrils of light crept into the room through heavy, velvet curtains, he still sat there; and when Draco finally relaxed and the sobs ceased, even then Harry did not let go.

In the background Draco could hear Hermione – Hermione, who had found him, who had been the first to notice him, and who had not treated him like a thing – soothing a distressed house-elf. ‘Ha!’ he thought to himself, ‘that’ll teach you to try to torture me!’ and he shuddered with remembered fear, with revulsion. Eventually, he allowed himself to be soothed and he didn’t think again for a very long time. He just concentrated on Harry, Harry’s words and his soft soothing hands as they stroked his hair. He snuggled against the man who had rescued him just hours before, trusting that maybe, for today at least, he was safe; and slowly, oh so slowly, he drifted off to sleep again.

****************************


	3. Part Two - The Healing

Thanks babe. *snuggles super Cyndie*

Chapter Two - The Healing

 

Harry didn’t think he had ever felt such tenderness for another living being as he was feeling for Draco right then. The other man seemed to have broken down completely. He was totally terrified of Dobby, of all things, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder what Draco must have been through to end up so frightened. Although, in truth, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know, because he had seen the pure, undiluted horror in Draco’s eyes and it sent shivers down his spine.

He needed to find out more about this concubine thing because this Draco, the one he held in his arms, was so very different from the boy he remembered.

Harry maneuvered them into the middle of the bed and lay down with Draco curled into his side. He stroked the blond hair and murmured soothingly. In minutes the injured young man was asleep.

Eventually Hermione calmed Dobby down enough to stop him banging his head against the bedpost, for which Harry was extremely grateful. She persuaded the elf to go and fetch them some tea and then she sat down on the bed beside Harry and Draco.

“He looks so pale doesn’t he?” she said, quietly. She lifted her hand to touch the blond man, but then stopped, withdrew it, and placed it in her lap. “I don’t even want to think of what he has been through.”

She bit her lip. It unsettled Harry to see Hermione so unsure of herself. “I… erm, I promised Molly that I would get back. She needs help with the party they’re planning for tomorrow… you know, to celebrate. I’ll ask her about concubines. And Arthur, he’ll know more and he won’t laugh.” Her face darkened as she added, “And I’ll have a word with Ron. I’ll come back later, Harry. You should get some rest, yourself.”

She leaned over and placed a affectionate kiss on his cheek.

“You’re a good man, Harry Potter, I’m glad you are my friend.”

With that she got up and left the room.

Draco sighed in his sleep and then whimpered and Harry’s heart clenched with sadness. Sighing to himself, he stretched his legs out on the bed then pulled them up beside Draco so he felt more comfortable leaning against the pillow. After what seemed like ages, simply lying there staring at the ceiling, Harry fell asleep.

*****************

When Draco awoke he wasn’t sure where he was for a second or two, but he had a definite sensation of déjà vu. He kept his eyes closed tight because if this was a dream it was a really nice one and he felt safe and warm and comfortable. So it must be a dream because nothing in Draco’s life had been safe or warm or comfortable for a very long time. But it wasn’t going away, this safe feeling, or the arm that seemed to be draped over him. He sighed contentedly to himself.

Then, whoever he was cuddled up to let out a gentle snore and Draco’s eyes sprang open. This wasn’t a dream! He really was being cuddled… and by Harry Potter, of all people, which must mean that Voldemort was indeed dead and, therefore, Draco no-longer belonged to him.

He looked down at his wrist where Voldemort’s mark had been and, just as he remembered from the night before, the mark had been replaced by the red, gold and green of the Potter crest.

He shivered.

He wasn’t cold, but he knew that his ownership had been transferred and he wondered what was in store for him now. The last sixteen months or so had taught Draco that it was futile to wish for anything. He could not, however, help hoping deep down that maybe, just maybe, Harry would be kind occasionally, like he had been the night before.

He looked up at Harry’s face to discover the other man was smiling down at him. His head rested against Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s arms still held him close.

“Hello,” Harry said. “How are you feeling today?”

Draco was amazed. It was the first time that anyone had asked him a question they actually wanted an answer to. It had been so long ago that he actually couldn’t remember the last occasion such a thing had happened. So often when anyone had spoken to him it had been to curse him, or call him foul names. He opened his mouth to answer and then remembered that he couldn’t. He closed his mouth again sorrowfully.

Harry was looking concerned now. “Draco,” he said so gently that Draco almost winced with the unexpectedness of it, “can you not speak?”

Draco just shook his head.

Harry looked sad and Draco realised he had never before noticed just how expressive the Griffyndor’s face could be. Perhaps it was the absence of Harry’s glasses or perhaps it was the fact that he had never been in such close proximity to the Hero of the Wizarding World; not since they were boys, anyway, and then their total concentration had been fixed on trying to hex each other into oblivion.

“Oh… um… er… well… I don’t quite know what to do now,” Harry said and then he bit his lip and looked all flustered. Draco couldn’t help himself, he smiled.

And then Harry smiled again, too. He asked Draco if he was hungry or thirsty and when Draco nodded he sat up and poured some tea from a battered silver teapot that had appeared from nowhere on the bedside table, along with a plate of muffins. They sat side by side in the big, old, wooden bed and drank and ate in comfortable silence.

Later Harry prepared the tub with warm water and bubbles and left Draco to enjoy the seclusion of his bath. He provided a towel and a rather threadbare bathrobe and told Draco to come find him in the kitchen when he was finished. 

It was wonderful.

Draco sank into the bath and just let the hot water seep into his bones. Harry hadn’t even stayed until Draco had taken off his pajamas. He had given him privacy, respect. He called him by his given name and didn’t use some sort of Anglo-Saxon epithet instead. He had let him drink from a cup and sleep in a bed, and Draco couldn’t believe how normal, how _human,_ this made him feel. But then he berated himself because he wasn’t human, was he? And he shouldn’t think like that – for that way lay madness.

Instead, he busied himself washing and relaxing in the warmth and the temporary solitude and the pleasure of being clean and unmolested. Then, wrapping himself in the glorious robe, he went downstairs to greet his new master as he had been told.

 

As Draco padded down the creaky stairs the most delicious smells seemed to wash over him. Bacon and eggs and sausages and coffee. Fresh coffee. He felt sadness again; he wondered what he would eat. If he were lucky, maybe Harry would at least let him have a scrap of sausage. Draco loved sausages; they were amongst his favourite foods. His father had scorned his tastes and tried to steer his palate in a more refined direction but sausages remained a secret vice. He reminded himself that his new master could not have known this and almost certainly wasn’t trying to torture him with that wonderful aroma.

He had been standing at the door for several minutes when Harry finally noticed him. The dark haired man had been fully occupied cracking eggs, frying bacon and whistling to himself as he worked. He smiled when he saw Draco.

“I thought you could sit on the sofa to eat,” he said with another smile. “Those hard chairs at the table are not very comfortable at the best of times and with your injuries…” He trailed off, looking rather sad. “Anyway, I’ve done you a tray.”

Draco knees collapsed with surprise at that statement and he fell heavily to the floor.

Harry dropped the spatula he was brandishing and rushed over. He scooped Draco up and sat him gently on the rather battered Chesterfield sofa that filled one corner of the sprawling kitchen.

“Oh Merlin, Draco,” he said. “You gave me quite a fright! Are you alright?”

Draco was astounded, so much so that he couldn’t even nod. _Harry had done him a tray? He wanted him to sit on the sofa?_

Finally, he gathered himself enough to nod and Harry, still eying him rather warily, returned to the stove and the breakfast he was cooking.

Draco was trying hard not to cry. Harry was going to feed him and it was going to be proper food, the kind he’d eaten before the Dark Lord. There was more than enough breakfast for two people and Harry was piling it onto _two_ plates and pouring two cups of coffee. The young concubine watched unbelievingly as his new master set one portion aside and carried the other over and set it smilingly before him.

Draco almost couldn’t eat. He had been semi-conscious the night before, barely noticing when Harry had given him soup. But this? This was proper food, like he used to eat at Hogwarts… a lifetime ago. There was a plate piled high with goodies, a glass of juice and a cup of steaming black coffee all placed on a battered tray that had a picture of a woman wearing a stove pipe hat and some flowery words which read ‘a present from Wales’.

Harry had moved back to the table. “Do you want milk in your coffee?” he asked and at Draco’s nod he came back over carrying a milk jug shaped like a cow. The milk came out of its mouth. 

Draco’s eyes widened again.

Harry laughed. “It’s hideous, isn’t it?” he chortled. “There was a battle here at Grimmauld place a few months back. Pettigrew got killed.” Harry spat that name as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth. “Lots of stuff was broken or ruined; so Molly Weasley and I went to a Muggle jumble sale and bought things to replace the broken stuff. I had to scrounge furniture from everyone. The Chesterfield sofa used to belong to Dumbledore’s brother. It ate people when I first got it and you’d have to hit one of its arms with a cricket bat until it spat them out again. Bill Weasley finally cured it. He’s a really good curse breaker.”

Draco was so surprised at this, at Harry’s babbling and the peculiar tale, that he let out a laugh. It was a small laugh, a tiny giggle on the laughter scale, but Harry’s face lit up and he bowed deeply. 

“So glad to have amused you, sirrah!” he said imperiously. 

Draco laughed again, only this time it was a tiny bit louder and lasted a bit longer than the previous one. Draco hadn’t known that he could laugh. This was another thing the Dark Lord’s men had, apparently, not taken from him. Maybe they had thought there was no point, that he wouldn’t be using it anyway… and for a long time they had been right.

Harry was munching away talking ten to the dozen. With his mouth full half the time and gesturing wildly with his fork, he pointed out various peculiar objects around the room and regaled Draco with their history as the two sat and ate breakfast together.

Draco remained perched on the sofa with the tray balanced on his knees, but Harry? Harry sat on the floor, cross-legged with his plate on his lap and Draco was astonished.

Had Harry always been like this? So relaxed. Draco had thought him to be stuck up at Hogwarts, full of his own importance, his celebrity status. But _this_ Harry was so different from the way Draco had imagined him to be. He hadn’t even mentioned the fact that he had killed Voldemort the night before. He hadn’t made Draco sit at his feet, hadn’t treated him like a pet or a possession. He had let him sit on the sofa, given him a tray to eat from and was treating him as some sort of equal. Draco couldn’t understand it at all.

All at once the floo flared open and Hermione stepped through, closely followed by Ron Weasley, one of his brothers, Arthur Weasley, Poppy Pomfrey and Severus Snape.

The appearance of so many people at once gave Draco such a shock that he dropped his tray, sending lukewarm coffee and the remains of breakfast all over the floor. Aghast at the mess he has caused, and as fast as he possibly could, Draco dropped to his knees amongst the debris, placed his forehead on the floor and waited to be punished for his crime.

***************

Harry was just beginning to relax a bit as they sat and ate together. Hugely relived at Draco’s laughter, it gave him hope that the old Draco might still be lurking somewhere inside this terrified creature. But the fragile normality they had established was destroyed in seconds upon the noisy arrival of the others. Draco was on the floor in such a submissive pose it was obvious he was waiting to be punished. For a second Harry groaned in despair. He looked over at Hermione but she did not need to be told anything, she was busy ushering a very surprised group of visitors from the room.

Harry reached out and placed a hand on the thin trembling shoulders of the man in front of him, he despaired again when Draco flinched at his touch.

“Its okay, Draco,” he said softly. He was stroking the other man gently now, carefully moving his hand in circular motions along his upper back. “I won’t hurt you, no one will. Not here, you are safe here.” 

Slowly the trembling stilled and Draco lifted his head and peeped up at him through his white blond hair. But then Hermione and Poppy Pomfrey came back into the room and Draco’s head went straight back down and the trembling increased again.

Hermione was white and her lips were thinned in anger. Madam Pomfrey was shaking with what Harry interpreted to be fury. They both made their way over to the two young men. Hermione sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa but the mediwitch spelled away all the broken crockery that surrounded Draco and then knelt beside him. She was talking in gentle tones as if trying to sooth an injured animal. Her hand replaced Harry’s on Draco’s back and she continued to whisper gently that she wanted to check him over and was that all right and she promised that she would not hurt him. Harry carefully stood up and backed away until he joined Hermione on the sofa. She reached over and squeezed his hand.

Harry felt like he wanted to cry and could feel tears forming in his eyes - again. What was with him? He hadn’t cried in years and Draco had him in tears _twice_ in the space of a day. What had happened to Draco was so far out of his experience that he just didn’t know what to do for the best. Oh sure, he had known cruelty, neglect as a child. But this? Whatever had been done to Draco was so monstrous that Harry could not quite believe it to be true.

“Mr. Potter.” He looked up to see Madam Pomfrey regarding him. “Draco is frozen in terror. You will have to order him to let me examine him.”

Harry was horrified.

“What do you mean order him? I can’t do that! I can’t tell him what to do.”

“You can and you must, Harry,” the mediwitch answered in gentle tones. “If he is a concubine as Miss Granger says, and because you killed Voldemort, then I’m afraid Draco has almost certainly been bound to you. He is compelled to do as you tell him and I need to examine him. You can see for yourself how very thin he is. He also has some serious wounds which need immediate care.”

Harry swallowed, hard. The suggestion was monstrous – that Draco would do whatever Harry ordered him to do. What if he suggested that the other boy stick his hand in the fire or something? What then? Would Draco do that? Would he have to?

But he knew the mediwitch was right and Malfoy needed treatment. Fixing his eyes on the frightened young man Harry remembered the wounds he’d seen last night and the fact that Draco looked almost emaciated and so very pale, that his hair no longer shone with health, that there were dark circles under his eyes which had possibly taken up permanent residence.

When he spoke his voice was dry, rasping. “Er… Draco… erm… Madam Pomfrey needs to examine you. Er… can you… erm… sit up and let her, please?”

Even though Harry had phrased his order as a question, Draco obeyed. He sat up. There was blood on his forehead. He must have cut it on some broken glass or china, but he took no notice. He sat back on his heels and let the blood trickle down into his eyes… eyes that were suddenly dead, uncaring.

Harry didn’t think he could take this. He stood to leave, but those dead eyes of Draco’s followed his movement and just for a moment there was a spark of something that looked to Harry like a plea. So Harry and Hermione stayed as Draco was examined. 

They watched Poppy Pomfrey stand Draco beside the kitten table and slip the bathrobe off thin shoulders exposing his nude form – pale skin covered with numerous bruises and welts. Carefully she began to heal him. She rubbed a creamy potion into the bruises and muttered an incantation as she ran her wand over the open wounds. When she was satisfied with her results she had the young blond man bend over and began to work on his bottom and thighs. All this while Draco was completely compliant, seemingly unconcerned by his nakedness in front of them all. He fixed his gaze on the floor and let the mediwitch have her way with whatever she chose to do.

When the examination, the healing, was over Draco curled up on the sofa, again at Harry’s request. There was a soft blue blanket folded over the back of the large piece of furniture and Harry used it to cover Draco. Even though the other man had donned his bathrobe once more, he was still shivering from spending an extended period of time naked in the cold, damp kitchen.

“It’s okay now, Draco, it really and truly is,” Harry told him gently. “No one will hurt you here, not ever again. I will not let them. I don’t understand this concubine thing; I don’t get it at all. But, if you have been bound to me, I promise you I will not hurt you, or make you do anything that you don’t want to do or anything that will be painful. 

“I don’t know what happened to you Draco, but I can see for myself that it must have been terrible to have left you in this condition. You’ll get better though; we’ll make you well and then you can be more like your old self and have a normal life and everything.”

Draco looked up at him, his face seemed aged with sorrow. He listened carefully and when Harry told him that things would be normal again he shook his head slowly as if all the misery of the world had settled in his heart.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, she looked infinitely sad. “You can’t promise him that. You can’t tell him that he’ll be back to normal because he won’t. I asked about concubines; I asked Arthur and Molly and Professor Snape. They didn’t laugh like Ron did. They’re here to see him and offer you support; but things have changed for Draco now and they won’t ever be the same again. I’ll go get them. They need to explain so that you’ll know, so that you’ll understand.

“Will you be alright if I bring them in, Draco? They are not here to hurt you, I promise that they are not.”

Draco looked stricken. His face emptied of colour and he began to tremble again.

“No.” Harry said. “I don’t think he’s ready, are you Draco? Take him upstairs Hermione, you and Madam Pomfrey.” He looked at the frail young man again, carefully, tenderly. “You trust Hermione, don’t you Draco, you know she won’t hurt you?” 

Draco had frozen again, but when Harry squeezed his shoulder seeking a reply he nodded. Hermione gently took the blond man’s hand and he stood carefully. Harry noticed that Draco was not wearing shoes. He frowned slightly and came to the realization that Draco not only needed sleepwear but an entire new wardrobe, including proper footwear. Harry nodded imperceptibly to himself and acknowledged that he would have to organise something, and soon.

As Hermione turned to leave Harry stopped them. He felt overwhelmed with tenderness for the smaller man and he pulled him into a gentle embrace. He was seeking to reassure Draco, let him know that he was going to be looked after, protected. It was then that he realised that Draco had grown in the night. Even without shoes he was Harry’s height now – when just last night he had only reached Harry’s chin. How could this be? He filed this away as another mystery to be examined in more detail later.

Draco felt so fragile, pressed against him like that and Harry wanted to reassure him, to reassure himself as well perhaps? He placed a kiss on Draco’s forehead, smiling as those silver eyes grew wide once more. “Whatever they have to say, Draco, you _are_ safe with me. I will never hurt you and neither will Hermione or Madam Pomfrey. Do you trust me on this?”

Draco met his gaze for a long moment and this time he did not flinch away. After what seemed like an eternity he nodded and the tiniest ghost of a smile played on his lips

Once the others had gone Harry felt exhausted. It was only a few hours ago that he had defeated Voldemort and he had hardly slept. Meeting Hermione’s grateful and approving eyes as she left the room, he realised all at once that she had probably not slept much either. Had any of them? He took a deep breath and headed off to the sitting room to meet with Professor Snape and the Weasleys.

****************


	4. Part Three  Catharsis

Part Three – Catharsis

 

They were all waiting for him when he walked into the sitting room. The Weasleys, Ron, Arthur, Bill, all had anxious looks on their faces they were obviously worried. 

Snape wore the habitual sneer that he seemed to have reserved especially for Harry.

“Harry!” Arthur said, “It is good to see you my boy, you must be exhausted after last night. I can’t believe that you finally did it, that he has gone for good, at last.”

For a second Harry was confused, but then he realised that Arthur was talking about Voldemort. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t alone, I had lots of help,” he said dismissively. 

“Hermione said that you could tell me about concubines.”

Arthur’s smile vanished, he looked grave. Snape’s face seemed etched with sorrow and Ron couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yes, well Harry, I believe that Ron told you the basics last night?”

“Ron had a bloody good laugh, last night and more or less told me that Draco was an animal now.”

This time no one seemed to be able to meet his gaze, not even Snape.

“Ron was right, Harry,” Arthur said sadly. “He isn’t human any more, he never was really, but the Malfoys kept his status quiet.”

“Once he was claimed, he became a cipher, a thing, he will no longer be able to make decisions, he will be nothing but a sort of blank canvas who will react to what you want of him. Without a master he will fade and die. He is yours like Hedwig is yours, only in some ways Hedwig is more than he is because at least she has free will.”

Harry couldn’t speak. There were so many inaccuracies in what Arthur was saying that he did not even know where to begin.

“That Mr Weasley,” he finally said, “is complete and utter shite. I have never heard so much crap in all my life.”

Arthur blanched

“But Harry, everyone knows…”

“From where do they know, Mr Weasley?” Harry said stonily, “What do they know? I have had Draco in my care since last night and I can tell you with out any doubt that despite whatever shit has happened to Draco he is still _there_! He’s not a fucking cipher! He can smile and laugh, he can’t speak for some reason but he still seems to be able to communicate. He ate breakfast, he cried in his sleep. He is reacting to things, to his surroundings. Blank canvas my arse!”

Arthur flushed this time, “really Harry, he said, “I am just trying to explain to you what Draco has become.”

“No Mr Weasley, I think that you are trying to explain what this fucking world thinks he has become! And the magical world has such a good record on how it treats creatures that it doesn’t consider human, doesn’t it? Look at what Hagrid had to go though, or Dobby, or Remus for that matter! I just want to hear the facts, the known facts, not hearsay, not supposition! Facts.”

They were all staring at him open mouthed. Harry supposed that they were shocked that he knew words such as ‘supposition’. But Harry had spent eight years as the best friend of Hermione Granger; he knew a lot of things that people didn’t expect him to. 

Before Hogwarts he had always had a thirst for learning. The classroom had been the one safe place in his life; he had just had to pretend to be stupid, so as not to be seen to outdo Dudley and that habit had become ingrained. It was so much a part of him that he almost believed it himself, but deep down Harry knew that he was not unintelligent, he was just a bit clueless sometimes that was all.

“Well Potter,” Snape drawled, “that was quite a diatribe, was it not?”

Harry glared at him defiantly

But it was as if Snape was regarding him without his usual scorn, there was an expression on his face that was almost akin to respect.

Harry dismissed that thought as his own exhausted mind rambling. Snape was never going to respect him, Harry was he?

“The facts as we know them are these.” Snape began, 

“Concubines are akin to Metamorphmagi and Veela. They are usually very beautiful and they are always submissive, once they are enslaved they no-longer have free will, than can no longer make decisions for themselves. They reach sexual maturity on or around their sixteenth birthday and from then on they are ready to be bound. They become more attractive to those around them and each person who becomes attracted sees what they most desire. The concubine is able to subconsciously interpret what their master most desires and provide it. And this is what makes them so sought-after, so valuable.”

I would assume that because Lucius was otherwise engaged for all of Draco’s sixteenth year he was able to hide what he had become. I cannot think that Narcissa was keen to have her son enslaved. But he was undoubtedly more attractive after his coming of age was he not Potter?” Snape continued looking at Harry with a particularly condescending expression.

Harry flushed. He had forgotten that he had followed Draco around for most of sixth year, but that had been because he was worried about what the boy was up to wasn’t it? He hadn’t fancied him ‘desired’ him had he?

Well even if he had, that was in the past as far as Harry was concerned and he was not going to think about it. This Draco, the one that Harry seemed to have inherited responsibility for, he needed help and Harry was going to get that help for him.

“I still think most of that is crap.” Harry said belligerently, “But I am assuming that you did do some research. What I really want to know is can they speak, concubines?”

Snape looked flummoxed for some reason, “Well yes, usually they can.” He answered, “Unless their owner desires that they should not.”

“Well Draco can’t, something has been done to him, because he isn’t speaking and if I’m his new master, then I want him to speak, I wished it this morning and he still can’t so there must be a spell on him or something.”

“I would like it, I would be grateful, if someone would come and see him. Madam Pomfrey has healed the worst of his physical injuries, but I don’t know if she can undo spells, oh and he wears what I am told is the Potter crest now, on his wrist and on his neck. I don’t know if you can get that off or not, but I’d like you to if you could.”

“But Draco is really frightened so I’m going to ask him if he will see one of you before I take you to him. I think it would probably be you Professor Snape, because he knows you. But if he doesn’t want to see you, then you’ll have to come back some other time”

Snape looked surprised

“You are going to ask him?” He asked, in astonishment, eyebrows up somewhere near his hairline registering his shock to the world

“Yes sir, I am. He didn’t want to see everyone before when Hermione asked, so I suggested he go upstairs instead. But I think there is at least one sort of curse on him and I don’t know enough to do anything about it.”

“Hermione _asked_ him if he wanted to see us?” Bill said, speaking for the first time

“Yes she did,” Harry said defiantly, glaring hard at the oldest Weasley son.

“Will you wait here and I’ll go and see if he will see you?”

He turned to leave, but Arthur stopped him by calling his name.

“Harry! He can’t love you, you know, he isn’t capable of it.”

Harry whirled around, “Mr Weasley,” he said coldly, “I do not know what you are talking about.

“Harry, Ron said, he told me, that you are lonely, looking for love. I know you are, son, but it will come one day soon, if not Ginny, then someone else. Don’t give up Harry, keep your concubine if you must, but don’t fall for him.”

Harry was appalled. He was shocked on so many levels that he did not know where to begin. 

For a start, he had always thought the Weasleys to be liberal and open minded, and yet Arthur Weasley, kind, generous man that he was, seemed to genuinely believe that Draco was nothing more than a thing, a creature. 

He thought back to his childhood and Ron’s shock when he had found out that Remus Lupin was a werewolf, that had surprised him too he remembered, but maybe some prejudices ran deep in the magical world? Maybe they truly did believe what they were saying was true? 

He couldn’t look at Arthur or Bill, but he glared at Ron and saw to his satisfaction that his erstwhile friend still could not meet his eyes.

“Mr Weasley,” Harry said, “you’ve supported me for such a long time, I truly believe that you care for me almost like one of your children and that is the only reason that I have not thrown you out already.”

“You haven’t seen Draco, none of you have. He has been so abused that it makes be want to be sick just to think of it. I just watched him being examined by Madam Pomfrey and it was all I could do not to throw up. Even if Draco were an animal, he would not deserve such treatment. But he is not an animal; he is a person, just like you and me. 

“I couldn’t think of doing anything like that with Draco right now, the things that that monster did to him have probably meant that he can never be touched like that again.”

“Hermione says that I have a saving people thing. I know I do. Maybe it’s too late to save Malfoy, I don’t know. But I am sure as hell going to at least try!”

Harry shouted the last few words he was shaking with anger. If he couldn’t convince the Weasleys of Draco’s humanity what chance did he have with anyone else?

But Harry also knew that he hadn’t quite told the truth. He was more than a little in love with Draco already and that was perhaps why Ron’s betrayal hurt so much. Ron _had_ seen Harry’s loneliness, his brooding when Ginny had drifted away, telling Harry that she found him ‘boring’, spending time with Oliver Wood, who was far too old for her in Harry’s opinion. Harry had trusted Ron not to say anything to anyone, but for his friend to tell his father? To take Harry’s concern for Draco’s welfare and turn it into something else, even if there was a grain of truth to it all? Such disloyalty wounded Harry deeply.

This time when he left the room, nobody tried to stop him.

 

Draco was curled up on the bed again. He had his head in Hermione’s lap and she was gently stroking his hair. It felt wonderful. No one had touched Draco like this for such a long time. It barely crossed his mind that she was Muggleborn. So what if she was, she was still better than him wasn’t she? 

Once or twice one of the men who had fucked him had been gentle afterwards, but most of them were disgusted by his lack of humanity. Draco had come to realise in the last few hours that neither Harry nor Hermione seemed to see him as anything less than human. Harry had been almost as pale as Draco when he had told him to allow Pomfrey to look at his injuries, he had obviously had difficulty ordering him what to do, in fact the only times he had done it before then was when he didn’t realise that what he was saying could be interpreted as an order. 

Draco couldn’t quite understand why this was so. But then of course they had both been raised as Muggles hadn’t they, Harry and Hermione? Draco had forgotten that about Harry at first, but Harry was downstairs with the Weasleys right now, they would tell him about Draco and then Harry would change. Instead of sadness and pity on Harry’s expressive face when he looked at Draco, he would view him with revulsion mixed with lust, the way that everyone else did.

He had closed his eyes, when Hermione began stroking his hair, he could sense that she was getting nearly as much pleasure from it as he was, and almost without knowing it he allowed his hair to grow, just a little to give her more to play with.

This time when he opened his eyes, Harry was in front of him.

The other wizard smiled.

“Hello Draco,” he said kindly, and Draco noticed with surprise that he did not seem repulsed at all, maybe he hadn’t seen the Weasleys yet, maybe he still didn’t know about Draco?

But Draco was soon disabused of that notion when Harry said,

“I have Professor Snape outside Draco, I have told him about you. I hope you don’t mind? I really had no choice you see, but to tell them all about you, Ron and Bill and Mr Weasley. I couldn’t help you on my own, you see, Hermione and I needed support. I think you have some spells still on you. Would you mind if Snape came to see you, he might be able to remove them?”

Harry _had_ been to see the Weasleys but he didn’t seem to have changed his attitude towards Draco yet. Not yet.

Draco was not sure if he could face Severus, not now, not ever. He was too ashamed. Maybe Severus would have refused to be his godfather if he had known what Draco truly was? But Harry was asking him, and Draco really wanted to please him so slowly, reluctantly he nodded.

But his heart clenched in his chest and he had to stifle his tears when Harry rose and opened the door and a familiar figure entered the room.

Draco wanted to run away, he stiffened in Hermione’s arms but she shushed him gently and just continued to play with his hair.

Severus came over to the bed and knelt beside it but he still couldn’t seem to look directly at Draco, he looked at Harry instead.

“I would like to see him alone Potter,” he said in his usual cool tones.

“Well I’m sorry Professor, but that is up to Draco,” Harry said equally coolly.

“Why don’t you ask him if he minds? If he does though, be warned, I will not leave him.”

Draco almost giggled. Snape looked as shocked as he, Draco, felt. Draco thought that those last few words that Harry had said were spoken for his benefit alone.

He sat up slowly, and looked at his new master, enquiringly to see if he could guess what Harry wanted him to do.

“Well Snape, are you going to ask him?” Harry said.

Severus seemed to gather himself, “Draco he said, looking directly at his godson for the first time, would you mind if I saw you alone?”

Draco shuddered a little, that gaze was so hot, so piercing, he looked at Harry again, but Harry’s face was closed, it did not give Draco a clue about what Harry wanted him to say, he really was on his own. Draco had not made a conscious decision since before he had been enslaved. Everything he had done had been ordered, regulated, but he suddenly realised that since Harry had rescued him, the other man had encouraged him, Draco, to make his own choices. 

He had left mushrooms on his breakfast plate because he had never liked them and had not been scolded. He had left the bathroom when he was ready, Harry had not rushed him. Even if he had been told to seek Harry out, he did not think that Harry realised that he had given Draco a command; it had been a request hadn’t it?

He had not even been punished when he had dropped his tray, Harry had comforted him instead. He had been held and respected and never once, in all the time that he had been here had anyone forced themselves upon him or expected him to perform an act that he did not wish to.

Several times over the past few hours Draco had felt almost human again and he realised something about being with Harry had allowed him, encouraged him to behave much more as he would have done before he was enslaved.

Severus was not his master, but if Harry ordered it he would be compelled to obey his every wish, and Draco waited, but Harry did not seem about to express any such command.

“Draco?” It was Severus again, he looked questioning, he was seeking an answer. 

Draco nodded

Harry smiled at him and threw Severus a look that Draco could not interpret. But Severus seemed to understand because he flushed a deep brick red. 

“I’ll be just outside Draco,” Harry said, “we both will. If you need me, if he frightens you or hurts you just yell and I’ll come, okay?”

Draco nodded again

With Draco’s acquiescence Harry and Hermione left. Madam Pomfrey had gone some time ago, she had run out of scarify salve, but had said that she would be back.

Draco turned his attention back to Severus and was startled to see tears in the other man’s dark eyes.

“You are still there aren’t you Draco?” Severus said softly, as the door closed behind Harry and Hermione. Draco felt confused, where else would he be? But then he realised what Severus was talking about, he had thought that Draco had become “other” when he had been enslaved, that he no-longer had a brain, that it had changed him somehow. 

That’s what everyone else believed after all wasn’t it? It was accepted wisdom; he had thought that to be the case himself hadn’t he? 

He had thought that he would become a mindless creature after The Dark Lord had finished with him, that was why he had fought so hard against his enslavement.

But he had been wrong and that had been the worst realisation of all. Draco knew that he was no different inside from the boy he had once been, he was still himself.

He had been treated like an animal for so long, that he had almost begun to act like one almost come to believe that everyone else was right. Harry he could see was endeavouring to give him back some dignity, some self respect, he flushed. He felt the tendrils of something uncurling deep inside him and it took him a moment or two to recognise what it was. 

It was anger. 

He felt his fists clench in his lap, he wanted nothing so much as to hit the man in front of him. The man who had known him all his life, who obviously also thought him less than human. Just like all the others, the ones who had once given him sweets or swung him in the air when he was a small boy and who had had no compunction about fucking him or torturing him for their own perverse pleasure once he had been claimed, once they had found out what he was. 

Harry did know didn’t he? Draco understood what that pointed look meant at last. Harry had told them all that Draco could still think, feel, Harry had defended him, Harry knew the truth, Hermione did and neither of them had turned away. 

This time Draco’s eyes filled with tears and for the first time he allowed himself to believe that what Harry had said downstairs could be true, that he could finally be safe that he would no-longer be abused, Harry was indeed a hero, and he would protect him

Severus was still watching him closely.

“Oh Merlin, Draco,” he said, “I thought….. I believed…. Everything I’ve read….. But you are still you aren’t you, still Draco?” 

Draco’s breath hitched, and the tears continued to fall but he nodded, seeing Severus here in front of him was such a reminder of how things used to be. When his godfather had initially seemed so cold, so distant it had forcibly reminded Draco of his father’s abandonment, of the way he had handed Draco over to the evil creature who had owned him for over a year. That perfidy, for that was indeed what it was, had hurt Draco more than all the rapes and abuse that he later endured.

A tight feeling began in Draco’s chest, and rose up until his throat was blocked. He felt as if he were about to choke on his own sorrow, he struggled to breathe for a moment or so and then he could not hold back the strangled sob that erupted.

And Severus Snape cold and distant potions master, calculating spy, took his godson in his arms and held him close while Draco sobbed unrestrainedly. 

Unseen by Draco, hot salty tears ran down his former professor’s sallow cheeks

 

It was much, much later that they were sat around the table, well not Draco; he was upstairs, asleep again. Severus had given him a dreamless sleep potion, but Harry had warded the room just in case the other man woke and needed him.

The Weasleys were back.

There was to be a party at the Burrow later, to celebrate the demise of Voldemort. But Harry didn’t feel much like celebrating. The fact that the others now believed him about Draco’s humanity seemed little more than a hollow victory. 

Draco had written it all down, what had happened and how he had felt. It had never occurred to Harry to give him a parchment and quill. To be fair he had been fixated on getting whatever had been done to Draco reversed, but he now knew that such a thing was not possible. Draco it seemed would never speak again. The spell that had been used on him had robbed him of speech permanently, other spells had been used too, spells for obedience and one to increase pain. Those at least Snape had been able to reverse 

Snape’s examination had been long and thorough, when he had left Draco’s room, he looked like a man who had aged fifteen years and he had held in his hand the first of several pages that Draco would write that day. It detailed some of the things that had been done to him at his original claiming, the very public rape that Voldemort had forced upon him.

It was all written in Draco’s own hand, the neat cursive script that he had always used. It described everything in graphic detail and the only thing spoiling the neatness of the page were the ink blotches caused by Draco’s tears.

Snape had requested that they join him and he had proceeded to read what Draco had written in his warm, melodic tones. They were more used to hearing his voice read out potions ingredients, never horrors such as the ones that Draco had endured.

Ron had been crying

Arthur and Bill were pale and looked stricken. Stricken with horror and with guilt.

And Harry was staring at the table.

‘Pain, sorrow, sadness, torture. Rape, Rape, Rape.’ 

The words of Draco’s testimony assaulted them all. Each word. Each phrase, settled like a stone in Harry’s stomach. He felt overwhelmed with grief for what Draco had endured. 

Hermione had not joined them. She had met Snape’s gaze coolly when he had requested her presence and informed him that she had seen the evidence of what Draco had been through and did not need to hear it thank you very much!

Harry wished with all that he had that he had said the same.

 

Upstairs Draco slept on. He did not dream. He was not subject to the terrors that had plagued him for the last few months. Having written down the details of what had happened to him. Having been treated with tenderness by the man he had seen as a sort of second father, whom he had long admired, Draco had achieved a strange sort of catharsis and for the first time in a very long time, Draco felt safe.


	5. Part Four - Finding a Voice

Thank you Cyndie Lou

Draco woke with a start from a deep sleep. Something was wrong.

It was cold.

Dark and cold.

Something was tied tightly around his legs and he was naked again. At least the top half of him was, the bottom half had something wound around him and he couldn’t move.

He whimpered.

In the darkness, he realised with horror that all the good things he had thought were true were merely a dream. Harry wasn’t here. He hadn’t been rescued. The Dark Lord was not dead. Draco was tied in his master’s bed, waiting to be raped again. Violated like the night he had dreamed that Harry had come for him, the night that he had dreamed Voldemort had died.

That night had been the worst so far. Voldemort had been angry. Furiously angry. He had suffered his worst defeat of the war just a few days earlier in Hogsmeade and every day since that battle he had taken his anger out on Draco, revelling in his slave’s pain and suffering with such enthusiasm that even Draco had been shocked. Each night it had gotten worse, escalating to the point Draco would pass out only to be enervated and the torture continued.

He could still feel those insistent hands on him, everywhere, touching him, probing him, pushing into his most sacred private places. Prying the cheeks of his sore, aching bottom apart and forcing themselves into him. Draco let out a sob. He didn’t know how much more he could take. Concubines healed quickly, they were very resilient, but Draco knew that the Dark Lord had come close to killing him the last time. There had been so much pain from the beatings and so many men.

” _No more. Please no more…”_ Draco begged in his mind. He could still beg in his head; he had a voice there, at least.

There had been so much hurt; it had gone on for so long. Ripping into him, tearing into him. And then he had thought that he would be safe, that Harry had saved him.

_”Harry, oh Harry, where are you?_ ”

The next sob was louder as he struggled frantically to get free from his bonds.

Draco wanted to die. He did not want to go through this any more, did not want to be just another inconsequential creature murdered by a madman. He wanted to do it himself, take his own life, take control of that at least. But there was barely a moment that he was left alone uncaged or unchained. As soon as there was, as soon as he could, Draco would kill himself. He had secreted a sharp piece of glass under the floorboard at the bottom of the bed, where he most often slept. One day, one day soon, he would cut his wrists.

Last night he had been too tired and too sore; and tonight, tonight he was tied again. He keened his anguish to the darkness, but it wasn’t listening. Nobody was.

Suddenly the door opened and Draco truly despaired. A figure in dark robes was coming towards him and Draco struggled harder. Even though the figure had not reached him yet, he could feel the hands, the fingers on his hot naked skin, uncaring, relentless, and even though the fingers were memories they were all too familiar to Draco. He thought he remembered other arms, too, strong arms, safety, the promise of protection. But that was not true. Harry was nothing but a phantasm of his own fevered mind.

He backed away from the figure that was advancing upon him, as far as he could get from whatever was restraining him.

_”Help me, oh someone, please help me…”_ was his last desperate plea and then he was falling, falling into the void.

*****************

Sitting morosely at a table at the Weasley’s celebration party, Harry poked at a vol-au-vent. He wondered why so many people had them at parties and if anybody actually ever ate them.

He remembered them from dinners at the Dursleys… not that he had ever been allowed to eat any, of course; he had just had to fill them for Aunt Petunia. The filling had to be piped nicely, the case risen just so. All that for a bit of pastry that disappeared in one bite; it seemed such a waste of time to Harry. Give him a nice solid chicken leg any day.

_”No more. Please no more!_ ” 

Harry turned around, puzzled. Had someone spoken? They sounded desperate, frantic. But there was nobody near him, he was alone. 

He had not wanted to come to this celebration. Bill had been the one who had persuaded Harry to come tonight and why he had allowed himself to be convinced was beyond him. Harry didn’t feel like celebrating, not yet anyway. It had taken too long to defeat Voldemort. Too many people had been hurt or killed by that madman for Harry to feel that there was anything at all to be happy about. And then, of course, there was Draco. What had happened to his schoolboy rival had appalled Harry and the more he thought about it the angrier he got. 

When he had first arrived in the magical world everything had seemed wonderful, shiny and bright. But it wasn’t like that really, was it? There was so much that was dark and twisted. The prejudices of the Muggle world were still very much in evidence. Oh, they wore a different face here, but they still existed. 

Voldemort had used prejudice and hatred to attain his goals but he had not started those hatreds – merely utilised them for his own ends. Even the Ministry was not immune to the cruelty and corruption of small minds and apathetic souls. Look at the terrible treatment of many house elves, Dobby in particular, he thought; and the unfairness of narrow-minded laws restricting people like Hagrid and Remus was maddening; and the injustice of what had almost happened to Buckbeak was dreadful. The irony that Malfoy was responsible for that injustice only to find himself now trapped by similar narrow rules and human apathy was not lost on Harry. But that didn’t make it right.

Harry had always disliked his Slytherin rival, and rivals they had been. But this Malfoy, this Draco was, as far as Harry could see, almost completely broken and in such a way that ignited his fury like nothing else. He had often wished, during those schoolboy years, to see Malfoy taken down a peg or two, but he would never, in a million years, have wished Draco’s fate on anyone.

Harry picked up a chicken drumstick and bit into it lethargically.

_”Harry, oh Harry, where are you?”_

Harry nearly choked. There was still nobody near him and yet he could hear a voice. It sounded familiar, but he could not see who had called him. His frustration mounted.

In the distance he saw Ron heading in his direction. Harry had managed to avoid confronting his oldest friend all evening. In fact, he had been avoiding all of them so far, especially the Weasley patriarch. They had been kind to him, the Weasleys, and Harry did not want to say something that he would regret, so he decided the wiser course was to avoid speaking to them instead. 

He thought back to his anger earlier that afternoon while listening to Snape. It had been intense and needed an outlet. Although he had seen the results of Draco’s treatment, hearing it in the boy’s own words had almost made it worse. Impotent rage and frustration had seared through him.

Still unable to meet Harry’s gaze, Ron had been particularly quiet after Snape had finished reading Draco’s testimony, they all had. He knew they were shocked by it. Shocked to find that Draco could still feel, was still human underneath. Shocked, no, appalled at what had been done to him and the extent of his suffering. Guilt and shame probably fit in there somewhere also. Mr. Weasley seemed to be feeling particularly guilty and kept looking at Harry with sad, shadowed eyes. Harry’s anger had only escalated at seeing their distress. He thought, however irrationally at the time, that they should have known. He had felt like shouting at him. Yet, even then, he could not bring himself to address the elder Weasley so he took his rage out on the hapless Ron. With venomous intent he had screamed that Ron was an insensitive, pureblood bastard; let the others draw their own conclusions about how he might feel about them. 

At that point Arthur and Ron had apparated home, Bill had calmed Harry slightly and convinced him to attend the party later, and Snape had offered to stay with Draco. He had pointed out in his snide, silky way that Draco was his godson and that he was perfectly able to take care of him. Harry had bitten his tongue and refrained from stating that he thought Snape wasn’t much better than Ron when it came to his initial reaction to Draco. But at least Snape was trying to make amends.

Startled back to the present, a new thought came to Harry. ‘But hey, maybe Ron was too?’ Ron was not known for his broadmindedness or his tact and diplomacy. But he was very loyal; once he decided he was on someone’s side, nothing would turn him against them.

Now that his anger had cooled somewhat, Harry thought that Ron deserved a second chance. As perhaps did the rest of the Weasleys. He was willing to admit he just _might_ have over-reacted a bit, taking his anger out on the Weasleys because there was no other outlet to vent it. Although their lackadaisical attitude towards concubines was reprehensible in his eyes, they had not known of Draco’s situation nor caused Draco’s trauma, Lord Voldemort had… and _Lucius Malfoy_ … Also, he figured he would need some support in the battle ahead. 

Harry had decided on two courses of action while wiling away his time at the celebration. Number one, that things were going to change and he Harry was going to change them. He had never used his Chosen One status before, never liked it, never wanted it. But he had just killed Voldemort; he knew that right now he was immensely popular with the wizarding public. He didn’t know quite how he would use that power but his resolve was hard and polished and immutable. And then, number two, when he had changed things, when he had made things better for magical creatures in general, and Draco in particular, he was going to hunt down Lucius Malfoy and _kill_ him. Slowly.

When Ron finally reached Harry’s side he looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, mate…” he began, but he got no further because just then Harry heard the voice for the third time.

_”Help me, oh someone please help me…”_

And all at once he knew who it was.

Draco.

Seconds later Harry was running up the stairs at Grimmauld Place two at a time.

He didn’t remember Apparating. He didn’t remember anything very much at all. Except the images. They were coming thick and fast now. Hands. Hands everywhere. Fingers, sharp, merciless. And no way to stop them, no control at all. Poking at him. Prodding him. Forcing him into positions that his body could not stand. The hurt. The hatred, the pain. All directed at him.

But it wasn’t him was it? Not him at all.

It was Draco. Draco’s voice that he heard, Draco’s pain that he saw, that he felt. Draco was screaming and so was Harry. Their voices matched, were attuned. They told of terror and pain and loss. They echoed with agony and loneliness, deep, achingly deep, ingrained. Harry was Draco’s voice, his clarion.

Harry fell against the door of Draco’s room, stumbling through it to the floor inside, sobbing.

Snape was in the room and somewhere on the other side of the bed was Draco.

Harry couldn’t see him and yet he could see Snape, from two different perspectives. Harry knew that the ex-professor was trying to help Draco, but at the same time he was overwhelming Draco with terror. 

Complete and absolute. Terror about what would come next.

He roared as he rushed across the room. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!!”

Snape leapt back against the wall, shocked by the intrusion.

_”Please don’t hurt me, no more, please no more!”_

“Potter, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I shouted. But back off or I swear to God that I will break your fucking neck. And get that fucking robe off!”

“What do you mean? My robe?” Snape was confused.

“Get it off now!” Harry was tearing at him. “He thinks you are going to rape him. He thinks you are a Death Eater.”

Snape went white. He started to disrobe and Harry pushed roughly past and went down on his knees.

The voice in his head was stuck on a kind of litany.

_”Nonononononononononononononononononononononononono…_ ”

He put out his hand and touched fevered skin.

“Aaahhh!” This time audible, not quite speech, merely a yelp of fear.

“Draco it’s me, it’s Harry. Come back to me, love, come back. You are safe here. They will not hurt you again. I promise you, Draco. I will not let you be hurt again.”

_“Mmmmaster? Master?”_

“It’s me Draco, it’s Harry. Call me Harry.”

_“Harry? You hear me? Help me, Harry, please help me?”_

The voice in Harry’s head was wavering, weak. But it was there.

Draco was shivering now. The bed sheet had become wrapped around his legs; he had been trapped, Harry suspected, and frightened. Harry ripped off his own robe and wrapped around the trembling man. Then he took him in his arms and held him close.

_“Mmmaster?”_

“Not master, Draco. Harry, just Harry.”

_“Oh Harry, I thought that I was back there, back with the Dark Lord. It hurt so much. Hhhee was not dead, he was ccccoming for me again. The pain… ow… so sore! Don’t let them take me again Harry, please.”_

“Shush, my love, they won’t take you. I promise they won’t. I’ll stay with you, Draco, for always.”

Harry had not had a lot of comfort in his life, but he knew what to do. He had seen mothers comfort their children, lovers comfort each other. And deep, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there was the tiniest spark of a memory. From that somewhere, deep inside him, came the fragments of a song.

”Hmm, Hmm, Hmm. Hmmm. Hmm Hmm. Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmm”

And so he sang it.

Draco said, _“Brahms lullaby. My mother sang that? How did you know it, Master?”_

But Harry put his finger to Draco’s lips and whispered.

“Harry, remember? Or Potter, if you like, in a snide and snarky tone. But not master, never master, Draco. That is just wrong.”

_“Sorry, Harry, sorry. Thank you for coming. I was so frightened. I thought I was alone.”_

“Not alone, Draco, never again.”

Draco smiled. It was a tiny smile but it was there. He lifted Harry’s hand and then kissed him gently, tentatively on the wrist, just once.

Harry felt a shiver run through him. An arm wrapped itself around his waist and a blonde head nestled into his chest, getting heavier with each passing moment. Panicked breathing slowed to even breaths. Trembling lessened. 

Harry leaned back against the wall completely drained. For the last few moments his total mental and emotional energy had been concentrated on Draco. He had used everything he had in calming the distraught Slytherin. Everything.

For a short while he just sat there, keeping his own breathing easy, soothing. Stroking the silken locks of Draco’s hair.

The he smiled to himself. In his head he could hear humming; Draco was singing Brahms lullaby all to himself. Only, Draco’s mental voice was in tune, sweet and clear. And, for a moment, Harry felt a deep pang for what Draco had lost, for all that he had lost. His home, his family, his innocence and his voice.

But he still had a home. He had a home with Harry now; he had a family. It might only be that slimy git Snape and Hermione and himself for now. But it might be the Weasleys, too, one day. And he had a voice. Harry could hear him, and if Harry could, then he was sure they could somehow ensure that other people could too. Hermione would know.

When he opened his eyes again they were not alone.

“Merlin forgive us! What have we done?”

Arthur Weasley had spoken. The little room was crowded – Remus, Snape, Hermione, Ron. They were shocked, all of them. He had been followed in his mad dash. They had come too. To help or protect, they could not have known. They had come anyway.

Then Harry knew that it was going to be alright, that his friends understood at last. They had seen for themselves. He knew, too, that Draco would survive. He had called for help, he had called Harry; he was not alone anymore and he knew it.

He was confused, of course, and frightened, but he had responded to Harry; had even gathered enough courage to touch him, to kiss him. Yet what had happened to Draco, what he had managed to survive, was enough to break anyone. What Draco had written had not even scraped the surface of all that he had suffered. Harry had seen the memories, felt them.

He placed a tender kiss on Draco’s head. He didn’t care who saw him or what they thought. He was going to take care of Draco from now on. Somehow they had bonded, somehow they were connected. Harry had never had anyone to take care of before and now he did. He knew that Draco belonged to him; he could feel it deep down. But he also knew that he belonged to Draco. The other man had called to him when he was frightened and now here he was curled in Harry’s arms breathing easily, fast asleep. Harry felt complete. 

No one moved for a while. Snape had made the others take off their robes and Harry almost laughed at the sight of his friends sitting round in the rather shabby room wearing nothing but their underwear. Hermione was the only one fully clothed, but then she rarely wore robes anyway.

Snape spoke at last. “We need to talk Potter.”

“You frightened him Snape, that can’t happen again.” 

The ex-professor hung his head. “I didn’t mean to, I would never have…”

“What happened, Harry?” It was Arthur Weasley who had interrupted. “You screamed; the things you were saying! They were awful!” He looked pale, shaken. “Are you….? Is everything alright?”

Harry looked at him. Arthur seemed devastated. He had no idea what he had shouted, what he had said, but everyone looked deeply shaken and very upset.

“Draco,” he said, “Draco was calling, I heard him.” He studied the responses. Everyone looked mystified.

Snape spoke.

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy!” he sneered. “He can’t speak! I told you that and I was with him the whole time. He did not say a word.”

Harry said nothing for a moment. He was eerily reminded of his second year when he had heard the basilisk, when he had learned that he was a parseltongue and assumed that everyone could talk to snakes. He had been told the wizarding world thought that hearing voices was just as peculiar as the Muggle one did. But this time he knew he was not mad. He knew he had heard Draco, had felt him. 

He smiled to himself and looked down tenderly at the man curled against his legs.

“Let’s get him onto the bed and I’ll tell you all about it.”

*************

It was Weasley, in the end, that lifted him. Draco woke as he was moved from the warmth and security of Harry’s lap. He whimpered, but he was soothed by a quiet voice and a gentle touch. 

“S’okay, Draco, you’re safe. We’re just moving you to the bed, that’s all. I won’t leave you again.”

The room was full of people, Draco could feel them. He sneaked a quick peek through his eyelashes and was surprised to see that everyone was clothed in their underwear. For a moment, he almost panicked. Why were they dressed like that, were they going to use him? Fuck him? He felt a shiver of terror run down his spine. He schooled himself quickly. He really did not believe that Harry would let anyone hurt him; he knew he was safe here. There must be some other reason. He decided that he would wait and listen.

So he snuggled on the bed as Harry placed a blanket over him and stroked his hair soothingly, reassuringly. He closed his eyes, deepened his breathing and feigned sleep.

“Draco called me,” Harry said. “He called for help. I heard him in my head.”

No one else spoke, so Harry continued.

“It must be something to do with this connection that we have.” Draco heard him give a gentle laugh. “He sang himself to sleep. He sings beautifully.”

Harry sounded wistful, sad, despite the laugh.

“But Harry!” Hermione finally exclaimed. “That’s remarkable, amazing. Though not altogether unexpected, now that I think about it.”

“What on earth do you mean, Miss Granger?” It was his godfather who spoke.

“I’ve been researching… um… quite a lot, actually…” she continued, “since we found out about Draco being a concubine. Most of the literature is about Veelas, but they seem very closely related to concubines. When they mate there is sometimes a sort of psychic connection, only when the bond is _really_ close, though. No one knew about that sort of connection in concubines, or at least if they did they have not written about it.”

_‘Yeah, well, nobody thought to ask us. Did they?’_ Draco thought bitterly. _‘We are nothing more than animals, after all.’_

“It seems to me that not much is known about concubines, Hermione.” It was Harry that spoke. “I think that we’ll need to let Draco tell us what he needs, don’t you? He is going to have to lead on this and I’ll be with him. At least he can tell me what he wants now.” 

“That was awful, Harry. I have never seen anything like that, not ever.” It was the weasel speaking this time; he sounded really shaken. “I never thought he had been so hurt – I mean, when Snape read what Malfoy had written it was awful, but seeing him so upset…” His voice was cracking.

It sounded to Draco as though the other boy was trying hard not to cry. Now wasn’t that a miracle? The weasel didn’t seem to hate him! Not that Draco wanted anyone feeling sorry for him either. He didn’t want them to think about him at all really; his emotions at the moment seemed to alternate between absolute terror and deep shame.

“I am so sorry, Harry, sorry for laughing, sorry for not understanding. I won’t hurt him. C-c-can you forgive me?” The weasel sounded distressed.

Draco was stunned. Harry had fallen out with Weasley over him? Harry didn’t speak, but when Draco took the chance of another quick peek through his eyelashes, Harry was hugging the other boy, he looked upset too. Draco shut his eyes tightly; he did not want to see that! There was a time when he would have rejoiced to see Potter in distress, but not anymore. Things were different now, weren’t they? Somehow Harry had become everything to Draco; somehow he had become Draco’s whole world.

He wished that the others would go and just leave him and Harry alone. Draco could not understand why they were all in this room or why they were all - except Harry and Hermione – clad in nothing but their underwear. He resolved to ask Harry later. He felt something else then, an emotion that was almost unfamiliar, but one that had made an appearance at least once in the past day or so. Draco felt hope. He didn’t know how it had happened but Harry had heard him. They had had a very bizarre conversation indeed but it had been a conversation. For the first time in more than a year Draco had been heard, had been listened to. Maybe, just maybe he was not going to be a pet any longer? Maybe he had a chance at a life again?

“It’s okay Draco, they’ve gone.” Harry was sitting next to him on the bed. He was stroking Draco’s hair again and the room was empty apart from the two of them. “Do you mind me doing this? Tell me if you do and I’ll stop.”

It took Draco a moment or two to realise that Harry was talking about stroking his hair. 

_”No, please don’t stop. I… it’s nice, I like it!_ he blushed then, bright red and Harry smiled at him. Draco thought that he might just melt into the bedclothes and then he blushed again. Oh Merlin, what if Harry had heard that? But the other man showed no sign that he had noticed that last thought, he just continued to stroke Draco’s hair.

_”Can you hear everything that I think?_ ” Draco blurted out.

“Hmm?” Harry said. He was obviously deeply engaged in his task and was carding Draco’s fringe gently with his fingers. “Oh… er… I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I mean I hear some things, but it’s like, well, it’s like I hear stuff that’s almost speech, especially if it’s a question. Then there is a sort of mumbling noise in the background, like mufflato.” 

Draco assumed that his confusion must have shown on his face because Harry continued. “It’s a privacy spell, stops people hearing what you are saying. I think that I only hear you sometimes, but you’ll probably need to practice, cause I heard you singing to yourself and I heard you thinking earlier, about wanting to be alone. That’s why I sent everyone away.”

Draco blushed even more deeply. _“What else did you hear?”_ he asked.

Harry looked at him steadily. “Draco, I won’t plunder your thoughts,” he said. “You have already lost too much of yourself. There has to be some way of controlling it, what you share and what you don’t. Hermione will find out if anyone can. She went to do some research.” He snorted with laughter. “So did Ron; he went to ask Fleur. The world has turned upside down, hasn’t it? Ron Weasley rushing off to find out something to help Draco Malfoy!” Then he looked sad again and Draco wanted to hug him tightly. “I wish it hadn’t taken something like this to stop us being enemies. I wish I’d known. I’d have come and rescued you. I would never have left you with Voldemort.”

_“But he might have got you then, Harry, and that…_ ” Draco shivered violently, _“that would have been the end of the world!”_ Harry cupped Draco’s cheek gently and smiled at him.

“It is very late now,” he said. “I think you should sleep. We have a lot to do in the morning.”

Draco wanted to ask what they would be doing in the morning, but he didn’t quite dare to yet. Instead he tried to calm his feelings, but one fear overwhelmed him.

_“Don’t leave me alone!”_ That particular thought was so loud that Draco almost thought he had spoken it.

“I won’t.”

Draco believed him. He still wondered if this was some kind of dream. After so long living in a tortured hell of the Dark Lord’s making, Draco was beginning to think that little bits of himself might just be salvageable. He might not be completely broken after all. 

He trusted Hermione; she had shown him nothing but kindness. Draco felt shame for the way he had treated her at Hogwarts. Not that she had ever had any problems standing up to him, he remembered ruefully. He had hated Ron and her so much because Harry had chosen them and not him. He had gone out of his way to make them miserable, to make Harry notice him instead. He vowed to himself that he would make it up to her.

Harry had stood and was quietly undressing and Draco watched him for a moment or two, noticing that the skinny boy was all grown up now. His shoulders were broad and tanned; he had a firm chest, and the most enticing little happy trail, that ran from Harry’s navel down into his trousers. 

Draco felt wonder again. Harry was beautiful. He had slept with many men since the Dark Lord had claimed him, but he had never felt like this about any of them. Draco wanted Harry to kiss him, to hold him, to make love to him. And how could that be the case after what he had been through?

_“Do I call you master?”_ he asked. _“I belong to you now, after all._

Harry stopped undoing his belt and sat back down. “You don’t call me master, Draco, you never need to. I am Harry, I am not your master, remember?”

Draco did remember, Harry had said that before, hadn’t he? But what _was_ he then?

Harry had obviously heard that thought because he said. “I don’t really know; we’ll have to find out together, but I think we belong to each other now.”

Harry was holding out his hand palm upwards. “Look,” he said. 

Draco followed his gaze and there, on Harry’s wrist, just above the pulse point, where Draco had kissed him earlier was a mark. It was smaller than the one that Draco wore and it did not seem to be matched by a similar mark at the throat like Draco’s was. But there was no mistaking it. 

It was the Malfoy crest.

********************


	6. Five  The Influences of the Past. Part One

Cyndie, my love, do you know how much I love you?

Chapter 5 - The Influences of the Past: Part One

In the morning, when Draco opened his eyes, he was by himself and yet he was not alone. Harry was close, he could feel him. It was like being held in a mental embrace. He felt almost content. He did not know what time it was, but he knew that he had slept well and that for most of the night he had been wrapped in Harry’s arms.

He lay in bed and watched the sun streaming through the curtains. The heavy velvet had been drawn back and fine muslin wafted to and fro on a gentle breeze entering through the open window; said window being almost floor to ceiling and opening to the rooftop beyond like a set of French doors. For a moment Draco ached to go outside. He had not been out in the daylight for a very long time. At night, yes, but he didn’t want to think about those nocturnal excursions with the Dark Lord. They were horrible beyond imagining and frequently painful. No, he had not seen the sun for the longest time.

The door opened and Harry came in. He was carrying the tray from the day before; it was piled high with croissants and held a full pot of coffee. 

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “Want to have breakfast in the sunshine?”

Draco knew he must have looked bewildered, because Harry gestured with his head towards the window. 

“There is a flat roof just outside, and me and Ron made it into a sort of balcony last summer.” He looked sad again. “It was just after Bill’s wedding and Percy had been killed not long before. We needed something to do, something that was safe (well, safe-ish anyway), cause I think Mrs. Weasley would have gone mad if she’d lost anymore kids right then!

“Want to see it?”

Harry looked so eager, like an overgrown puppy, Draco thought. So he smiled and nodded, threw the covers off and followed Harry outside.

He blinked in the sunlight and almost ran back inside when he felt the gentle breeze caress his skin. It was beautiful out here, if a little scary for someone who had not experienced such heady freedom for more than a year.

There was a little wrought-iron-table and two chairs placed against a low wall. A small collection of pots were dotted around and Draco recognised several herbs and a large tub of lavender. Most of the house was still a bit of a wreck, and he found it endearing that Harry had tried to make a little sanctuary in his bedroom and bathroom and added this small outside space to make it even more so. A special place that he had given up without even a second thought, it seemed, when Draco needed it. Draco wondered if he would continue to sleep there or if Harry would move him now that he appeared to be on the mend.

Harry had placed the tray on the little table and was setting out the breakfast things.

Draco gathered his courage and left the safety of the bedroom, the sanctuary of the window frame, and moved towards the chair that Harry had pulled out for him to sit on.

He had had to tie a knot in the waistband of the trousers to stop them from falling down. They were far too wide for him but they were fairly short in the leg, now that he seemed to have reached his true height, ending at his lower calf rather than his ankle.

Draco wondered where they came from and Harry obviously heard him.

“They belonged to my cousin Dudley. I… um… used to wear his old things. I stayed with my relatives until my seventeenth birthday and I had just left when Death Eaters attacked. There were wards on my aunt’s house – it’s where I lived as a child – and the wards protected them as well as me. Even when…” His eyes cut to Draco, searchingly, “…Voldemort…” 

He waited until Draco’s violent shudder was over and then continued.

“…came after me the week before I turned seventeen. So he waited until I was gone and then had them killed.” 

Harry looked infinitely sad.

“I hated them. When I was a kid I wanted them dead all the time. Used to wish for it when I was in my cupboard. S’funny, but it’s sort of like a tribute to Dudley, keeping the pajamas. Even when I got stuff of my own, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.”

Draco wondered what on earth Harry was talking about. What did he mean ‘in my cupboard’? But he kept those thoughts to himself. He still wasn’t very good at knowing which thoughts were projected enough for Harry to catch and which were not. But when he purposely directed something, when he ‘thought’ speech, then Harry always seemed to hear it. He tried directing again.

_“I’m sorry, Harry!”_

Harry smiled at him; he had obviously heard that thought. 

“Well, he’s dead now anyway, and my relatives always hated me. Turns out they had reason to, doesn’t it?”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. He hardly knew Harry, really, did he? What did Harry mean that his relatives hated him? Was that why he had always worn such dreadful rags when he was not in uniform? Surely everyone loved Harry? He was, after all, the hero of the wizarding world.

All at once, there was so much he wanted to know.

What was Harry’s favourite colour, and favourite toy when he was a kid? Who were his relatives? He had heard they were Muggles, was that true? They had known each other since they were eleven years of age and yet Draco knew almost nothing about him. Harry had rescued him two days ago and, since then, he had hardly left Draco’s side. They seemed to be connected somehow, deeply connected, and yet he didn’t even know how Harry liked his tea.

The other boy wasn’t looking at Draco, he was busying himself with the coffee pot, opening the jam, taking the lid off the butter dish. His face looked drawn, sad and Draco wondered when the light had gone out in Harry’s eyes. He had always had fire inside him, passion. But now he seemed tired, worn down by the world and his role in it.

Harry had saved him, but maybe he needed saving too? Could Draco do that?

Harry looked at him and smiled. His eyes took on a less haunted look, but they did not dance with joy, not like the little boy Draco had met all those years ago in Madam Malkin’s. But they would, he decided. He would make Harry’s eyes smile again. Yesterday, last night, Harry had said that they belonged to each other now and Draco decided that Harry needed looking after too. He wondered what they were going to do today and whether or not he might ask.

Draco had never been brave. He had tried to avoid danger whenever possible, usually by giving in and doing what he was told to do, first by his father and then by his master - the one whose name he did not even like to think. Would Harry be different?

Draco screwed up his courage, the tiny bit that he had left and smiled back at Harry.

_“Harry, what are we going to do today?”_ As soon as the thought was out there, tangible, he flinched back into himself.

Oh, Circe! What if he was not supposed to ask? What if he got punished?

But Harry’s smile widened and Draco forced himself to relax.

“Well,” he said, handing Draco a cup of coffee and gesturing with the cow shaped jug, waiting until Draco nodded before he added milk. “There are a few things that we should do, some of which you might quite enjoy.

“First of all, I think we should get you some shoes. Because, whilst it’s alright going barefoot out here and in the house, you don’t want to go outside like that. And the clothes don’t fit either. They are too short and too wide… oh… and… of course, we need to get you a wand."

Draco gasped. Harry was talking of wonders, treasures. Clothes, shoes, a wand.

_“But I don’t have any money!”_

Harry cupped his cheek again, he was always doing that and Draco liked it; he found himself leaning into the warmth of Harry’s hand and he couldn’t help himself he gave a small shiver. It was still quite cool out here, despite the fact that it was summer and the sun was shining down.

Harry looked stricken. “Draco, are you cold?” he asked, noticing the goose bumps that were decorating Draco’s arms. “I am so sorry!” 

Minutes later he had the blue blanket from the day before wrapped around his shoulders. It was almost like being hugged.

For the next hour or so they sat and talked and made plans. Harry was insistent that he had more than enough money to buy whatever Draco needed. The decision was made on that score, but about everything else Harry asked his opinion and for the first time in a very long time Draco felt that someone was treating him with respect.

Whilst they talked, Draco wondered whether his life would have been different if he and Harry had made friends earlier, if he had agreed to be bonded to Harry, or if Harry had been someone he could have turned to when his father had finally decided that the dark wizard in the prophecy was indeed He-Who–Must-Not-Be-Named. He had never understood the prophecy to begin with and had tried not to think about it too often. Over the past year he hadn’t cared very much, anyway. But he decided that he would ask Hermione. She would help him understand it, because the whole thing did not seem to be working out the way his father had supposed it would.

He turned his attention back to Harry, who was currently telling him a story about the Weasley twins and a crate of purple kneazles.

He was pulling a face when he described the two boys covered in squirming creatures as they tried to stuff them back in the container in which they had arrived. Draco couldn’t help himself, he laughed. This time it wasn’t a mere giggle, it was a true guffaw. And Harry played up to Draco’s mirth, rolling his eyes as he tried to demonstrate just how comical the twins had appeared, and Draco laughed some more. Then they grew more serious and discussed other things, favourite foods, favourite books and favourite colours. Harry’s favourite colour was blue, which surprised Draco; he had thought it would have been red or gold for the perfect Gryffindor.

Harry caught that thought and he looked up at Draco.

Draco felt a wave of panic then. Oh shit! He should not have thought about Harry in those terms. But Harry was smiling again, more widely than Draco had yet seen and for the first time his eyes betrayed the hint of a sparkle.

“That sounds a bit more like the old you!” Harry said. “Snarky, bad-tempered, sarcastic, witty.”

Draco was astonished.

_“But I used to be obnoxious! I said horrible things to you. And I… I really didn’t mean half of them.”_

“Yeah, you were obnoxious sometimes, but hey, at least you were you. Not someone who is so badly abused that he starts shaking at the mere thought of offending me. You can be cranky sometimes, and rude, I don’t care. But when you get your wand back you had better not create anymore of those ‘Potter Stinks’ badges that you made in fourth year!”

Draco felt overcome with horror. How could he have done that to Harry? 

“That was a seriously cool bit of magic, that was,” Harry was continuing. “You always were good with charms.”

The horror became astonishment and tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. Harry had thought him good at charms? He had noticed Draco?

“Well, yeah!” Harry said obviously catching that thought. “I had to study my rival, didn’t I? We might not have liked each other then, but I never underestimated you.”

_“I am not that boy any more, Harry. I wouldn’t hurt you now, even if I could, were strong enough, I wouldn’t.”_

“I know that, you plonker!” Harry replied grinning at him. “But you are strong, Draco. You’d have to be or you wouldn’t have survived what that fucking bastard did to you. Now tell me, what is your favourite colour?”

For a moment, Draco was thrown. He didn’t quite know what to say. This was real, wasn’t it? Harry wasn’t going anywhere and he was determined to be Draco’s friend, his support. Draco felt secure, safe in the knowledge that Harry was on his side.

Harry was still looking at him and Draco realised that Harry had asked a question.

_“Oh!”_ he thought. _“Oh, Harry! My favourite colour is green.”_

Harry smirked at him. “Slytherin!” he said teasingly.

Draco smiled back. Let Harry think that if he wanted to. Draco’s favourite colour was a very specific green and it had nothing whatsoever to do with his erstwhile house. The green that Draco liked best was the same exact shade of Harry’s eyes.

*****************

It had started well enough, their day in Diagon Alley; but later that afternoon, upon returning from their much-anticipated shopping trip, Draco’s feeling of security and emerging self-esteem had all but vanished. He felt like he wanted to crawl back under the duvet and never come out again.

~~Six hours earlier~~

About mid morning they apparated first to the The Leaky Cauldron and then Harry dragged Draco to Gringotts and down to his “ready-at-hand cash vault. He handed the startled Slytherin a bag of gold. 

“That’s yours,” he stated blithely. “Buy whatever you want. But everything else, everything you need is on me.”

Draco was stunned into wide-eyed wonder by the sheer amount of money that Harry had. In this vault alone there were piles of it, just lying about. When asked how many vaults he had, Harry shrugged and said, rather offhandedly, that he thought about 3 or 4, maybe more.

_“But, Harry, how much are you worth? How much money?”_

“Oh, I don’t really know. I’ve never had an accounting done,” was Harry’s casual answer as he shoved galleons into a couple of bags.

_“You don’t… you’ve… never…”_ Draco’s thought petered out, speechless at such obvious unconcern on Potter’s part.

After a few moments of silence Harry looked up and saw the incredulous expression on his charge’s face.

“What?” Harry glanced around at the messy vault. “You think maybe I should ask the goblins about doing one?” 

_“Yes, it might be a good idea, a very good idea,”_ was all Draco could get out.

“Okay, guess I’ll look into it when we get you squared away.” Harry smiled widely at Draco and went back to sorting his money sacks.

Draco idly wondered what his father would have to say about such fiduciary carelessness. Almost from the time he could talk his father had drummed good money management in to his head. He also wondered why Harry was still living in such a wreck of a house and had so few things when he was obviously very wealthy. But he didn’t ask him at that moment, it would not have seemed right.

Thanking the goblins and mentioning he would be back to discuss auditing his vaults in the near future, Harry shrank his bags of money, and Draco’s too, and they exited Gringotts and headed in the direction of Madam Malkin’s.

Madam Malkin herself came rushing over to welcome them in. Well, welcome Harry, at least. Last time that Draco had been in there at the same time as Harry things had been really different between them and they had nearly come to blows when he and his mother had sneered at Hermione. 

And the time before? The time before that was etched on his memory. The time that he had, all unknowing, somehow thrown away Harry’s friendship.

Today the staff could not be happier to see Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord, and, by extension, they also welcomed Draco. 

Harry was full of enthusiasm, fizzing with excitement. It was almost as if he had decided to put aside whatever had saddened him for the duration of the shopping trip, and all for the benefit of Draco.

He swept into the robe shop and announced that he wanted Draco to be completely kitted out from head to toe with whatever he wanted and Draco had loved every minute of it. He was in his element, dragging things off racks, trying them on and laughing and smiling as the girls that were serving them flirted with him and pampered him. 

Two and a half hours later they left with enough clothes to keep them going for, well, years, probably. Certainly in Harry’s case, at least, since Draco had persuaded him to get new clothes too and, not wanting Draco to be upset, Harry had gladly acquiesced. 

Harry was happy in this endeavor to let Draco take the lead, as he had never really been shopping before, and cheerfully sat back and let Draco choose everything – from formal robes to shoes, to complete outfits from the Muggle designer racks that filled the back room and that Harry, apparently, did not even know existed. 

Draco felt almost human when he left, wearing new things that actually fit him and a delicious pair of dark brown brogues.

When they had arrived in Diagon Alley, it had still been early. There had been hardly anyone about: a few shopkeepers, a Ministry worker or two, a couple of unsavoury looking characters. But just before they left the robe shop, Madam Malkin came over to them.

“Everything else you bought will be sent to the address you gave us, Mr. Potter. But I think that you and Draco should wear these.”

She held two robes in her arms. They were purple and made of lightweight summer cloth but both of them had deep hoods; Draco could remember trying them on earlier.

“Thank you, Madam Malkin,” Harry said, “but we’ll be alright, really. It’s quite warm out.”

Madam Malkin raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I am not offering these cloaks to keep you warm. There are a lot of people out there and you do cut a rather distinctive figure. You both do. I think that for your own safety you should cover your hair at least, you are both very _noticeable.”_

Harry smiled at her anxious face. “Thanks, Madam Malkin, for looking out for us. It means a lot, you know?”

Seconds later, they left the shop decked out in the hooded- purple-robes. Harry took Draco’s hand in his own and they headed for Ollivander’s. 

The old man had disappeared during the war and everyone had assumed him to be dead. It seemed, however, that he had been kidnapped by the Dark Lord. He had apparently been in some sort of deep trance for the entire time he was in Voldemort’s possession and had been held captive in the cellars of Riddle Manor. The Order had discovered him just after they began their assault and he had awoken at the very moment that Harry killed the former Tom Riddle. He had been completely unharmed.

The man appeared from nowhere when they walked into the shop.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, how good to see you again! And Draco, it is good to see you too. How can I help you today?”

He gazed at them both enquiringly with large moonlike eyes.

Draco looked at Harry. The other boy had not seemed to notice that Ollivander, just like Madam Malkin and her staff, had called Draco by his first name only.

He had lost his last name, it seemed.

“We want to buy a wand for Draco,” Harry said with a bright smile. 

A smile that died slowly and was replaced by puzzlement when Ollivander sadly shook his head. 

“I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Potter,” he said. “But I cannot sell, your… er… I cannot sell Draco a wand.” He looked regretful, he didn’t quite meet Draco’s eye.

“Why?” Harry asked. “I have plenty of money.” He placed a blue velvet bag crammed with galleons on the counter in front of him.

Draco wanted to crawl away and hide. It was as if cold water had been poured all over him, as if all the little bubbles of happiness that he had been feeling for the last few hours had popped or drifted away. 

_“It’s because I am a concubine, Harry,”_ Draco told him sadly.

Harry looked at him. Draco was holding his hand tightly, as if for dear life, and his demeanor was completely deflated. The blond man hung his head. He seemed to shrink a little, curl into himself again. He had had such fun in Madam Malkin’s and Harry had begun to think that Draco might have started healing, just a little. 

Frowning, Harry turned to look at Ollivander.

“I want you to tell me why, Ollivander! In your own words, tell me why you will not sell me a wand!”

“I will sell you a wand, Mr. Potter; I just cannot sell one to Draco. Please do not make me tell you why. I think the poor boy is upset enough already.”

Harry growled. He couldn’t help himself; he was barely holding on to his temper now.

Ollivander looked regretful.

“I am sorry, Mr. Potter. I am sorry, Draco. I did not make the law; I do not like the law. But I must follow it to the letter.

“I am very old, Mr. Potter. I have been alive a very long time, far longer than you would believe, I think. I, too, have a magical creature in my lineage. Most of us do to some degree, but my mother was a sidhe. I am half-blood myself, I do understand.”

Draco gasped when Ollivander told him what his mother had been and Harry felt confused.

“Er… but isn’t everyone’s mother a she?*” he asked, somewhat confused.

Draco was peeking at him from the corner of his eyes. He still looked upset, but Harry could see that he was also just a little bit amused.

Ollivander explained.

“A sidhe, Mr. Potter, is a fey, a faerie, one of the oldest ones of all.

“Draco is also a magical creature. Such blood runs strongly in his family, for good or for ill. For each who are celebrated by the families Black and Malfoy, there is one who is condemned. Such is the way of the magical world.”

“But it’s wrong!” Harry spluttered. “No one should be condemned for what they are, for what their parents were!”

Ollivander inclined his head towards Harry, acknowledging this statement.

“Indeed, it is wrong, Mr. Potter, and I am very sorry for it. But the fact remains that I cannot sell Draco a wand.”

Harry felt cold. “Why do you keep calling him Draco?” he asked irritably. “Why did Madam Malkin call him Draco?”

He heard a sound beside him and turned to look at Draco. His head was still down, his chin almost touched his chest by now but Harry could see something glittering on his cheeks. 

It was a tear.

_“My father disowned me when he gave me away. It seems I have no family name now. They know, they all must know, Madam Malkin, and her staff, and Ollivander. I’m not a Malfoy anymore.”_

Draco’s sadness was palpable.

Harry grabbed him and pulled him close. He had to gently tug the taller man’s head down so that it rested on his shoulder.

“One day, Draco, I will make him pay!” Harry promised. “The fucking bastard!”

They stood like that for a moment or two. Draco obviously seeking comfort and Harry desperately wishing that he could give it. Finally Draco pulled back and Harry allowed him to go.

He turned to face Ollivander again.

“If you won’t help me get Draco a wand, I’ll go somewhere else!” he said coolly.

This time Ollivander smiled.

“Mr. Potter, you must learn to listen more carefully,” he said in quiet tones. “I will sell you a wand. I cannot sell one to Draco. I must obey the letter of the law. But you have my sympathy and understanding.”

Harry was flummoxed.

“Wha?”

_“Harry?”_ Draco’s soft voice echoed in his mind. _“Do you not understand?”_

“No, love, I don’t!” Harry said. “It’s as clear as mud to me!”

Draco chuckled.

Ollivander was standing watching them closely with a gleam of something akin to triumph in his large milky eyes.

_“Ollivander said that he could not sell me a wand but that you could buy one for me, if you wanted to.”_ Draco continued.

“He did?” Harry asked.

Draco smiled weakly and nodded. His eyes were wide and darted around the room unable to settle on anything, seemingly even for a moment.

“Mr. Ollivander!” Harry exclaimed at once. “I need a new wand, but I am too tired to try them out right now. I would like Draco to try some for me, and… er… let me know which one he thinks is best… erm… I’ll just sit here and rest for a bit.”

Ollivander nodded and gave one of his eerie smiles.

“Just so, Mr. Potter,” he said. “Just so.”

They were in the shop for at least an hour whilst Ollivander whisked wands from shelves and out of boxes and all the while Draco swished and flicked until Harry thought his arm must feel like falling off. 

But, finally, he at last picked up a wand and the room was alight with red sparks.

Draco gasped again.

Ollivander, however, seemed delighted. “Ah, hawthorne, eight and a half inches, swishy, good for charms, transfiguration and some potions work. An excellent choice, an excellent choice indeed, Mr. Potter!”

He was looking at Draco when he spoke and his eyes were glittering.

“A very different wand from your last,” he continued. “This one contains a Veela hair as its core and it is the only one in stock. How fortuitous that it suits you so well!” 

Harry’s jaw dropped; he had always thought Ollivander to be a bit wacky but he now decided that the guy was a complete nutcase.

The shopkeeper was busying himself, parcelling up the box in which the wand had been stored.

Harry paid him and, in return, he handed the box to Draco. “I am sure you do not wish to be carrying your parcels around, Mr. Potter. Isn’t that correct, yes? Do enjoy the use of your wand. I prophesise great things still to come for you.”

This time Draco's gasp was louder than ever.

Then the wandmaker bowed at the waist and smiled one of his peculiar smiles. Harry blinked and he was gone.

He opened his mouth to say something but Draco quickly put a finger to Harry’s lips.

_“The walls have ears, Harry. We must leave now, I think.”_

They sat at a table outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. Harry always felt sad when he came here; the murdered man had been so kind to Harry when he had stayed at the Three Broomsticks the summer he had run away from the Dursley’s. The shop had been taken over a month or so beforehand by Fortescue’s nephew, John.

He was a nice man, friendly and welcoming, even though he had no idea who hid beneath the deep purple cloaks he and Draco were wearing. And Harry was suddenly really grateful to Madam Malkin for producing them.

John arrived with two dishes of double chocolate ice-cream. Harry waited until he had left before turning to Draco. “What was that all about, do you think?”

Draco sighed. He had picked up the ice-cream spoon but replaced it as soon as Harry spoke. For a moment he looked so lost, sitting beside Harry with the deep cowl of the hood shadowing his features. 

_“It is because of what I am, Harry. A concubine. I am not allowed to own anything, especially anything magical such as a wand. My magic is bound to yours. I… I have no last name, because my father repudiated me, he gave me away. I hadn't really thought about it when you promised to buy me a wand today, but I should have remembered. I'm sorry._

_“Ollivander was trying to help us. But he is being watched.”_

“But he didn’t want to sell you a wand!” Harry hissed at him, “I don’t think that’s very helpful! And you shouldn't be apologising when it is the magical world that is full of stupid arseholes who listen to prejudice!”

Draco looked around, perhaps anxious that they were being overheard. But there was no one close by at all.

_“No, Harry, he told us that he was a magical creature himself. He told us that he didn’t like the law. But he left the decision up to you. That intimation that he gave you about the letter of the law. He obviously suspected that he was being monitored. He did drop some massive hints, though.” _

Draco shuddered and Harry wondered if he was finding it difficult to disagree with him, he suspected it was hard for Draco to tell him that he was wrong about anything.

Then a thought hit him.

“But we talked, Draco, you explained the hints, didn’t you? Didn’t, wouldn’t anyone who was listening in have heard us?”

_“Harry. Oh, Harry!”_ the voice in Harry’s head, Draco’s voice, sounded lost and sad and alone.

_“Ollivander was careful. He expressed his disapproval, quite strongly in fact. The Ministry wouldn’t dare to go after him, especially as he is part sidhe, a magical creature which is very respected in our world. But he didn’t offer to sell me a wand. He sold you a wand, it was your decision to buy it. All that anyone listening to the conversation would have heard was you sounding a bit confused and… erm…”_

There was an echo of a thought then that flashed into Harry’s mind, a notion which it seemed, was ruthlessly squashed: the thought that nobody in the Ministry would be surprised if Harry sounded a bit confused.

Draco was obviously terrified that Harry had caught that idea and he was frightened that Harry would be angry with him. Draco’s head was down again and Harry could not even see a glimpse of his face through the cowl of the hood.

Harry took the other boy’s hand. It was milky pale and trembling slightly.

“Yeah, I know, Draco. The Ministry think that I am a bit thick, and sometimes I am. But I’m not completely stupid. They didn’t hear our conversation, did they? They only heard Ollivander and me.”

Draco nodded, or at least the hood moved up and down very slightly.

He had no voice, no way of expressing himself except through Harry. But the truly awful thing, the worst thing of all was that nobody really seemed to care. Oh, Draco said that Ollivander had been supportive, and perhaps he had. He certainly helped them. The trouble was they seemed to be trapped in a world where Draco was considered less than human, and a great many people didn’t seem to have a problem with that at all.

He was not going to think about it any more, though. He was as determined as ever to make this day a treat for Draco, to give him a super nice time, and he was not going to let the horrible incident at Ollivander’s ruin their outing. He was resolute that they should put the incident out of their minds and enjoy the rest of their shopping trip. 

He took Draco’s hand in his own again and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s not think about this any more right now.” 

Draco followed him willingly enough, finally slipping his arm through Harry’s and holding on tight and together they headed optimistically in the direction of Flourish and Blotts, Harry deciding it would be the very thing to buy Draco a huge pile of books.

*************************


	7. Six  the influences of the past. Part two

Chapter 6 - The Influences of the Past: Part Two

 

Draco was curled up on a rug in a corner, hidden in a section of the book-shop that had floor-to-ceiling shelves. His dark purple robes spilled all around him onto the floor and, because he had been here for ages now and nobody had bothered him, he felt safe enough to push his hood back so that his face could be clearly seen. Of course a glimpse of white blond hair was also visible to anyone who might wish to look.

Great piles of books stood precariously surrounding the boy except for a small bare patch of floor off to his right. If Draco liked a book he put it on the bare patch of floor and the book vanished only to be processed and added to Harry’s ever growing account and thence presumably to reappear at home.

Draco wondered when he had begun to think of Grimmauld Place as home. He had no idea. But it did feel like home; it felt like Harry. 

Harry seemed to have regained some of the equilibrium that he had lost at Ollivander’s. He would disappear for awhile and then come back with yet another selection of volumes he thought Draco might like. There were books on everything from Quidditch to Potions with a vast array of titles in-between. 

Harry’s hood had fallen off completely and his hair was in disarray. Every so often someone would come up to him and ask if he was Harry Potter and brandish a quill and something to sign. Harry would oblige whoever it was with a signature, all the time looking totally bewildered as to why anyone would possibly be interested in him. 

Draco smiled to himself.

Harry was so endearingly sweet sometimes. When they were at Hogwarts Draco had believed, sincerely believed, that Harry loved his fame, encouraged it. But really, he could not have been more wrong.

Harry didn’t understand. He didn’t have a clue, did he? Harry Potter could have the world at his feet and yet he seemed to want none of it – none of the praise or the adoration that was surely his due. Instead, he seemed perfectly content to live in a battered house with a psychotic sofa, a cow shaped milk jug, and a little balcony with some cast iron chairs and a pot of lavender.

Harry was obviously very wealthy indeed, and yet… he didn’t flaunt his riches. He had, in fact, lived very frugally up until now, his mind presumably occupied with other things.

Harry was coming towards him again and he had even more books in his arms. Draco could see the spines of the books: red, blue, green edged in gold. He wondered idly what the titles were, surprised that Harry had managed to find anything Draco had not already seen. A small girl stopped him in his progress back to Draco and Harry smiled and bent towards her.

Draco thought that Harry’s smile was like the sun, brilliant and warming. Harry had turned his gaze on the little girl and then he spoke. Draco couldn’t hear what was said but he could see all of Harry’s attention was on the child and he wondered if this was part of Harry’s charm… this ability to look at someone as if they were the centre of his universe and nothing else mattered.

The little girl nodded. Her red plaits bounced, emphasising the movement of her head. Draco was reminded of Ginny Weasley and wondered what had happened between her and Harry. There had been no sign of her in the last few days, not even with the tide of Weasleys that had invaded the bedroom the night before. He wondered if he dared ask Harry one day?

Then Harry was looking at him, smiling at him. Draco found that he could not breathe and his heart felt like it was being squeezed. For a brief second the world stood still and then Harry turned his attention back to the little girl and time moved on once more.

Draco forced himself to turn his attention back to the book held open in his lap. Another potions volume. One that he thought Severus might enjoy. Suddenly the sun was gone, as if chased behind a cloud, and the room grew cold as a shadow fell across him, one that echoed dark malevolence.

“So, your master has abandoned you, has he?”

Draco looked up.

A woman was smiling down at him, but Draco did not like that smile. It was evil, toad like. It was the kind of smile that Draco was all too familiar with, having encountered it almost daily over the past year. It belonged to someone who liked to see others in pain.

He thought he knew her. She was wearing a pink suit consisting of a tweedy jacket and matching skirt. Her iron grey hair was obediently curled. She had an umbrella tucked beneath her arm, also pink and patterned with kittens in various colours, mewling to each other piteously. Draco found that he could not look away. At first glance she looked like everyone’s idea of a favourite maiden aunt, fluffy and kind and caring. But those eyes, hard and calculating, and that smile told the truth… she was anything but!

 

He did know the woman; he remembered her from Hogwarts. She had been nice to him then and he had revelled in her cruelty to Harry, rushed to carry out her bidding. Oh Merlin, what had he done!

Dolores Umbridge smiled even more widely, but her eyes stayed cold and agate hard. Draco looked away from her regard with difficulty and stared down at his lap instead. Then the handle of the umbrella that she carried was beneath his chin and his head was being forced upwards to meet that remorseless gaze.

“I asked you a question, concubine, you would do well to answer me.”

Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Those eyes seemed to understand immediately what he could not say. They sparkled with malice. The cruel mouth turned up at the corners again, this time in a satisfied smirk.

“Someone rendered you mute, hmmm? Quite right, too. What would an animal need with speech.” The question was rhetorical, she was no longer speaking to him after all, more like addressing a lost dog. “You don’t seem to be wearing a collar, though, and that is against the law. I think I’ll have to take you into custody.”

Draco began to tremble. Was he meant to wear a collar? Did Harry know? Draco did not want to go back to a cage like the one at St. Ignatius. 

Suddenly the very floor seemed to be moving and books wobbled dangerously on their shelves. A large, red volume crashed from its position on a nearby shelf and landed mere inches from Umbridge. Draco looked around, beginning to panic. What was happening? His trembling increased triplefold. What was going on?

“If you do not remove that umbrella from under Draco’s chin then I shall take it and wrap it around your neck.”

“Potter.” 

“Move away from Draco and do it now.”

Harry was speaking through clenched teeth. He was trembling, rubbing the fingers of one hand over the back of the other. The very air about Harry seemed to bend and bow; another book flew past Umbridge’s head. It was Harry’s doing, Draco thought. Was he losing control of his magic?

Draco noticed that Umbridge had to look up at Harry now. Back in school they had been about the same size, but it seemed Harry had grown. The witch’s eyes were wide with panic now. She flinched as another book flew past her head, but she did not seem willing to acknowledge her instinctive fear. Her chest was puffed out, her stance firm. She was full of self-righteousness, determined not to be beaten and, despite his panic, Draco wondered if she actually thought she could win this battle.

“You have a B-class magical creature unfettered in a public place. Don’t you realise this is against the law? I shall have to take this animal into custody. It isn’t safe or healthy letting animals run free around normal people.” Umbridge was speaking in a tone which suggested she had already won the argument.

“He is not going anywhere with you and I find your tone offensive,” Harry said. “Draco won’t hurt anyone and isn’t a threat here, but if you push me you will find that I am far more dangerous than any magical creature you could imagine.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move at all. But Umbridge backed away, then stopped and puffed out her chest once more. The temperature of the little corner in which Draco had been sitting dropped by several degrees and the pages of the scattered books around him began to move wildly in a phantom breeze.

Umbridge’s nostrils flared, her mouth twisted in apparent disgust. “You don’t scare me, Potter!” she snarled.

“Don’t I?” Harry said quietly. “Do you think I care how you feel? Draco is not harming anyone, we were just getting ready to leave. I suggest that you move out of the way and let us.”

They were at an impasse. Neither moved for a moment and then a tall, thin man joined them.

He turned to Harry and extended a hand. “Mr. Potter, my name is Frederick Flourish. So glad to finally meet you. You have done so much for the wizarding world.”

Harry turned his attention to Flourish and shook the hand that had been offered to him. The books that surrounded them, that had become ever more animate in their frenzied protest, were suddenly still.

Umbridge, however, was obviously determined not to be distracted. She grabbed the thin man by the arm and started shouting at him, gesticulating in Draco’s direction as she spoke.

“This creature should not be allowed to roam free in a public place! I found him here, sitting in this corner, bold as you please. It is not right, should not be allowed! He should not be unfettered without the permission of the owner of the shop.”

Flourish had slate black eyes. He stared steadily at Umbridge until her diatribe was finished. One or two books jumped a few inches into the air, as if in protest at the woman’s words.

“Mr. Potter has my permission to bring his pet here any time he wishes,” Flourish said calmly.

A larger book than Draco had yet seen appeared from nowhere and crashed to the floor beside the man. Harry’s eyes were flashing; he looked enraged.

Draco felt like he had been bathed in ice water. Umbridge was spluttering, obviously enraged that the man seemed to be taking Harry’s side. But he wasn’t really, was he? He had called Draco a ‘pet’, not a companion or a friend but a pet.

All at once Draco knew that it didn’t matter what Harry said. He might be the hero of the wizarding world, but the wizarding world was not going to back him in this. They might defend his right to own Draco, to take him where he wished. They might prefer Harry to the Ministry but their prejudices were very deeply-seated in the fabric of wizarding life. He should know, he had lived his life surrounded by bigotry. He surmised that if he had not been a concubine then, more than likely, he would still be a part of that world, would be one of those people with those same prejudices. He had never questioned his parents beliefs after all. 

Draco realised there was nobody who would defend them; even people who seemed to understand, like Ollivander, would not speak out. Madam Malkin had indulged the two boys, had offered disguises, but had not used Draco’s second name. This man, this book shop owner, who was obviously trying to be kind, had unintentionally dealt the cruellest blow of all. He was obviously defending Harry to the Ministry, in the shape of Dolores Umbridge, but he was not challenging the status quo.

Draco looked at Harry, really looked at him. Harry was a hero but he was also a seventeen-year-old boy with dark circles under his eyes, whose face was drawn, whose cheeks were hollow, and who was losing control of his magic. 

A small crowd had gathered, looking on. The young Slytherin saw Harry open his mouth to speak. This wasn’t the time to fight. Harry needed to recover and Draco didn’t think these people were truly ready to hear whatever it was Harry might have to say.

_”Harry, take me home please?”_ Draco directed his thought to Harry as hard as he could.

Those gorgeous eyes turned to focus on Draco, filled with concern, tenderness.

_”Please Harry?”_

Nodding, Harry bundled Draco into his robe, pulling the hood up to conceal his face. Draco snuggled close to Harry’s chest feeling safe and protected. At the same time he tried to close his ears to what was being said all around him.

“Did you hear, Harry Potter has a pet!”

“It’s a concubine! I heard he inherited it.”

“Oh look, how cute! It’s burrowing against him.”

“Lucky bastard, fancy inheriting a concubine!”

Bitter tears were stinging Draco’s eyes and his throat felt sore and scratchy. He felt Harry’s hand pressed against his head, holding him close and tried hard not to sob.

He heard Umbridge’s cold, clipped tones, berating Harry and Flourish for subjecting the public to such uncouth company. He heard Harry telling her to leave them alone. He heard Flourish telling Harry that his books would be sent on and Harry’s gentle thanks; and then he heard nothing but the sound of rushing air as Harry disapparated them back to the relative safety of Grimmauld Place. 

****************

Draco was sick. Violently sick. Harry sat beside him and tried to keep his damp hair out of his eyes, away from the vomit. Stroking the blond locks gently with one hand, he rubbed idle circles on Draco’s back with the other.

He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? As far as Harry was concerned the whole world had gone mad. Draco was human, he was a wizard. That seemed blatantly obvious to Harry. But it had also seemed obvious that Remus was a good man, and Hagrid, too. He hadn’t been able to protect them from senseless hatred either.

He couldn’t help but wish that Dumbledore were still here.

The old man had had his faults, huge ones in some cases. Yet bigotry had not been one of them. Prejudice had no place in Dumbledore’s world. But even he had been hard pressed at times to defend the causes that he supported. He had lost the battle to keep Remus at Hogwarts and had been unable to free Dobby from a life of torture (Harry’d had to do that with a trick). But if Dumbledore had still been here, they would have asked him for help. He would have been able to give them advice. He would at least have tried to help.

What should have been a simple shopping trip had turned into torture for both of them, but especially for Draco. He was sobbing now and had curled himself around the toilet bowl as if it were sanctuary, reluctant to release it. Draco seemed almost broken and for once Harry was at a loss about what he should do. Harry dampened a piece of flannel and used it to clean the bits of Draco that he could reach and tried to decide what he was going to do.

A gentle knock surprised them both. The bathroom door opened and Hermione came in. She walked over and sat on the edge of the bath.

“Was it bad?” she asked gently.

“Hermione,” Harry cried, welcoming the chance to talk, to vent to someone who would understand. “It was shit! The whole day! People didn’t use Draco’s surname and they didn’t talk to him and then, when we were at Flourish and Blotts, Umbridge came and treated Draco like he was some sort of animal, and then…” Harry gasped as he ran out of air; he didn’t like the way his breath hitched, hated the fact that he felt like he might cry. What right did he have to cry after all? He wasn’t the one who had been treated like an inferior being.

Hermione reached over and gently patted his shoulder. Swallowing hard, Harry continued, “Then Mr. Flourish came. He was defending me, trying to help… I think… but he called Draco my pet!” Harry shuddered as he remembered the look on Draco’s face at the use of that word.

Draco had seemed so happy in the bookshop, contented even, sitting with his pile of books, humming away in his head.

“It’s not right, Hermione, it’s so unjust. It’s...” Words failed Harry, there was just no way to describe how wrong the situation was.

Hermione sat on the floor beside them. Draco had moved away from the toilet bowl and buried his head on Harry’s shoulder. He was shivering slightly so Harry wrapped his arms around him. Harry couldn’t feel any coherent thoughts, just waves of sadness coming from the man he held so tenderly.

“Prejudice is never right, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “It is rarely rational either. Voldemort didn’t exist in a vacuum; he had plenty of supporters, plenty of people who thought he was right about blood purity. I doubt that ideology has changed simply because he was defeated. In all probability the issues of purebloods versus half bloods and muggleborns will be moot for a good long while. Spouting such pureblood sentiments right now is political suicide and totally unacceptable. But other forms of prejudice still hold strong sway in the wizarding world. It seems magical creatures have no protection in this respect.

“The more I read about concubines the harder I find it to equate what I am reading with Draco. He isn’t an animal; he isn’t an unthinking creature, a mindless thing. But the books all oppose that view.” Hermione looked puzzled that she might have found books she disagreed with; she had always found her knowledge in the library. Harry thought that it was probably very disturbing for her.

“Each book that I read references others, and I research those, but it’s as if book after book is constructed on misinformation, on propaganda,” she shook her head in disbelief. 

_“History is written by the winner.”_ Draco’s thought echoed in Harry’s head. Harry looked down at him. Peeking up at her through his lashes, Draco was obviously following Hermione’s words avidly. Harry wished the two of them could have a conversation, that he could simply let them talk without having to be the go-between; but for now Harry was the only means through which Draco’s thoughts and feelings could be shared with others.

“Draco says that history is written by the winner,” Harry said. Hermione snorted, a bitter sound. 

“You are right, of course, Draco,” she said. “There has to be a way to change things, though. You are articulate. You are living proof that the existing knowledge on concubines is wrong. Maybe we could work together, your thoughts and experiences, my observations. We won’t change the world overnight, but we could make a start.” 

She reached over and then stopped. Her hand hovered close to Draco’s cheek but she didn’t lay a finger on him. Their eyes met and Draco nodded, giving Hermione permission to touch him. She brushed his damp fringe out of his eyes and smiled at him.

“I don’t think that anyone has ever listened to a concubine before, Draco. Maybe it is up to us to change things?”

“Erm… Hermione,” Harry said. “There is something else that happened today.”

She looked at Harry steadily, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Er… my magic, it went a bit wild and… um… I sort of lost control for a minute or two.”

“Did you really, Harry?” she asked, but she did not seem terribly surprised. She spoke as if she was trying confirm a theory. “How did you feel?”

“How do you think I felt?” Harry snapped. “I felt bloody furious!”

“Yes, Harry, of course you did. I expect that had a lot to do with things,” Hermione said calmly.

Harry narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t reply. He knew Hermione well enough to know that something had set her thinking, but she would take herself off and read and investigate and nothing would get her to discuss her suspicions until she was ready.

They sat there on the cold tile floor for a little longer, each wrapped in their own thoughts and then Hermione spoke again.

“Fleur is downstairs,” she said. “She has come to see you, Draco. Ron asked her to visit, but he stayed away, he thought you might prefer that right now. Are you up to talking to her?”

Draco had stopped shaking. Whether it was Hermione’s words or the fact that she believed Draco was human and treated him as such that had calmed him, Harry didn’t know. Draco had dampened down his thoughts, almost as if he did not want to be heard right now, and Harry wouldn’t dream of intruding. Whatever the reason, Draco seemed calmer. He looked at Harry as if searching for permission, but Harry was so not going down that road. 

“It’s up to you, Draco,” Harry said.

Draco looked back at Hermione and eventually, after what seemed like forever, he nodded again.

*************

Fleur was sitting at the well scrubbed kitchen table one hand in Bill’s and the other resting comfortably on her swollen belly.

Draco stopped dead when he saw the eldest Weasley and Harry ended up crashing into the back of him. Draco’s eyes were huge in the half-light of the dark kitchen and they glittered with a sheen of tears. Harry could not think what was wrong.

“What’s the matter, love?” he asked, coming around to look at Draco’s stricken face.

_“M’sorry, so sorry,”_ Draco’s voice was a shadow, no more than that.

“He says he is sorry,” Harry repeated, puzzled.

Bill flushed a bright brick red underneath the scars that still marred his features. Hermione, who had entered just behind them, blushed too.

“Oh, I am sorry, Draco. I thought you’d realise Bill would be here too.”

And all at once Harry knew why Draco was so very upset. He didn’t even notice Bill’s scarring anymore. The once handsome features were permanently marred, but it didn’t seem to have stopped Bill from getting on with life. He had married his Veela; she was carrying their first child. Harry had forgotten that it had been Greyback, long since dead, who had attacked Bill. Forgotten that Greyback’s entry into a school full of innocent children had been Draco’s fault. Draco had not been expecting to see Bill; they hadn’t warned him that the man would be there as well as Fleur.

For a second or two, an awkward silence dampened the cheerful warmth of the kitchen, but then Bill stood and walked over to Harry and Draco and to Hermione. He held out a hand to Draco. Firm, strong and steady. 

“I reckon you’ve had a far harder time than I have, mate,” he said quietly.

For another second Draco did not move. He stared at the hand in front of him as if he did not know what it was, then he took it firmly and held on tightly. He allowed himself to be led gently to the table and to Fleur who was now standing just beside a battered kitchen chair awaiting their approach. 

Draco couldn’t stop trembling as he got closer to the blonde woman. He wasn’t attracted to her, not at all. But she smelt so wonderful, like roses and warmth, of chamomile and safety. He wanted to bury his head against her shoulder, against her bosom and just be held. She smelt right.

He’d never really had much to do with her at Hogwarts. She had been a champion at the Tri-Wizard Tournament and he had remained un-noticed, in the background. Part of him had been delighted because he had not wanted to meet anyone who might recognise his heritage, especially someone with Veela blood. But part of him had hated Harry for the adoration that he had received as one of the champions. The thought of those dratted badges came back to him again and he blushed a deep scarlet.

Fleur put her head on one side and gazed at him as if he were something that she could not quite understand. But then he thought to himself, perhaps he was strange to her.

“Do not blush, little one,” she said. Draco may not have talked to her when she had been at Hogwarts but he had definitely heard her speak. She had changed a lot since he had seen her last and now there was just a gentle accent, a softening of some words, nothing like as strong as it once had been.

Draco opened his mouth. He wanted to tell her that he was not blushing because of anything she had said, or because of their close proximity. But then he closed it again. Just for a second he had forgotten that his voice had been taken and the remembrance of the loss was as painful as it had ever been.

“Oh, little brother,” Fleur said, her eyes filling with tears. “Poor little brother!”

All at once Draco’s eyes filled with tears. He had managed not to cry all day. He had withstood the casual dismissals of the people he’d met and the deliberate cruelty of Umbridge. Even in the bathroom, he had not cried; he had been close once or twice but he hadn’t cried. However, a little kindness was all it took to undo him completely, the same as it had from Snape.

He was enfolded in Fleur’s embrace and sobbed quietly whilst she ran gentle fingers through his hair and shushed him with a song he had never heard before but felt he had known for all of his life. One that was very low, whispered, that he suspected was only for him.

Once the song was finished, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently away. She was smiling at him.

“Better?” she asked.

Draco nodded, he wasn’t sure quite what had happened but he did feel better somehow, less frantic than he had felt even moments before.

“Good, because I am afraid, little brother, that I must sit.” The smile grew somewhat wry; she was laughing at her condition.

“I have come here today because Ron asked me. He said that you have been through hell. He said he thought you needed someone who might be able to help you learn a little about yourself. My brother-in-law has not always been the most understanding of people, but I think he got it right this time? 

“He told me you were lost and alone, that you needed someone who could help you understand some of your feelings and to share with you what you should always have known. You have been very badly treated, but you must have courage, little brother. You come from a noble line.

“Concubine and Veela are close relatives. Not everyone realises how close, even Ron and Arthur did not realise how close till Hermione told them. We have a lot that is the same about us and some things which are different, but not as many as you would suppose. Veela are bound just like concubines are, and we are,” she lowered her eyes at this point and whispered, “submissive.”

Bill squeezed her hand, which he was holding once again, tenderly, gently and Draco was under no illusion that he would have given her the moon had she asked for it.

“But we do not change like concubine do,” Fleur continued. Her accent was less strong but sometimes the way she phrased things sounded a little strange. “We do not have the blood of the Metamorphmagus; thus, we transform only into the shape of birds when we are very angry, otherwise we always stay the same. Both of us can ensnare the senses of those we wish to conquer. It is a means of self protection. Nobody has shown you this, little one, have they? But not our mate, he – or she – can not be ensnared, they are immune. Once we are mated, it is for life.”

Draco wanted to speak again he opened his mouth but could only make a little huff of frustration. Harry spoke for him instead.

“But what about Voldemort?”

“I do not think that Draco and Voldemort were mated,” Fleur declared. “I think that Draco was raped and enslaved, not mated.”

Draco stared at her.

She looked calmly, directly into his eyes.

“Draco when you find your mate, the person that you will love for all of your life, you will know. You will feel it here!” She made a fist and held it to her chest, near her heart. “Your mate will mark you, as will anyone to whom you are bound, but, if you have choice, if you are not forced to bond, if you feel love, then you, too, will mark your mate in return.”

Hermione made a small squeaking noise and looked deeply satisfied with something.

Harry gasped. “But then… that means I am Draco’s mate!” He extended his arm to show Fleur his wrist. 

He was sitting alongside Draco, as close as he could get really, his legs touching Draco’s, his hard Windsor chair right beside Draco’s mismatched one. Draco held his breath, he didn’t want to hear anger in Harry’s voice or sadness or regret. Harry sounded astonished but he did not seem unhappy.

“He is not cross, little brother,” Fleur said, gently squeezing Draco’s knee. She seemed to understand him so well he didn’t need to speak to tell her how he felt, but oh how he wanted too. “He speaks to you all the time of his feelings, Harry does, but no one ever taught you how to listen. I will teach you to open your heart, little brother.”

“Did you think I might be angry, Draco?” Harry asked urgently. “Because I’m not!”

And then more softly, like a caress.

“Draco?”

_“I am frightened, Harry! I do not understand.”_

“He is very… erm… anxious, Fleur,” Harry said. “Erm… I don’t think that he knew any of this.”

Fleur’s eyebrows were raised at Harry.

“I can see that,” she said coolly. “He should have known all of these things, since he was a child. But they hid him away and told him nothing but half truths. 

Draco felt astonished, not at Fleur’s words, but at the way she spoke to Harry. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that he had been treated so badly. 

Then he realised Fleur was angry, not at Harry but at his own situation. She was restraining her fury but the anger was showing anyway, anger on his behalf. He had apparently found yet another champion when, just a little while earlier, he believed there were none. She had snapped at Harry it seemed because she was suppressing her feelings. Harry for his part seemed totally unfazed by her coolness.

“I must go now, you need to rest.” He lifted his gaze to hers, giving her his full attention once again. “But I will come back soon. We need to talk, little brother, talk much more. We have much to share, but not today.”

She extended her arm and just above her pulse point was a small mark, a crest. Bill still sat close to Fleur holding her hand. Draco had watched how the red-haired man had stroked it gently whilst they had been talking. Then he, too, showed Draco his wrist. On his pulse point, stark against the pale freckled skin, there was a tiny mark… a crest of blue and silver.

Draco couldn’t bear it. Bill was Fleur’s mate. She had chosen him above everyone; she had made a choice. When had he even had a choice? He had been forced by his father, given to Voldemort. His eyes stung again at how different it had been for Fleur, loved and admired by everyone, because she was part Veela and Veelas were acceptable.

But then he felt a strong arm snake around him. An arm that was lightly tanned, that was sprinkled with fine dark hairs. The arm pulled him closer to a firm torso and wrapped him in a comforting embrace.

Harry.

“Today you have been battered by the world, I think,” Fleur continued, her grey eyes were tender and sympathetic, “and now you must get some sleep. But first, I have something for you. Something special that will help answer your questions, that will help you understand more about yourself until we can talk again. 

“Young Veela, young concubine, they are given this book.” 

Draco had not noticed that Fleur had been holding something – but in her hands, extended towards him, was a slim volume. He had had enough of books for one day, but something about this one called to him. Draco reached out and took it tentatively. As he touched it his hand felt almost as if it had been burned, yet he could not draw away.

The cover had been worn smooth by the touch of countless fingers. It was mottled in places, faded in others. Under the many centuries of grime there was a hint of the books original colour, was it purple perhaps?

He turned it over hungrily, enraptured.

He looked at the woman in front of him, desperately wanting to speak, but it seemed that he didn’t need to right now.

“It is the book of Yang Guifei,” she said. “Her name means ‘precious princess consort’. Yang Guifei was one of the most beautiful women who ever lived. She was also very magical. Her mother was a veela and her father a Metamorphmagus. Even Muggles know some of her story though not the whole truth.

“She was the beloved of the Emperor Xuanzong, fifteen hundred years ago. The Emperor supposedly abandoned his duties because he was besotted with her. Many accounts tell of her family who were gifted positions of power because Xuanzong could refuse her nothing. Some accounts say that they were corrupt, others say that Guifei was too. There was an uprising and many of her relatives were killed; the Emperor was threatened and, according to legend, Guifei was killed because she had to be stopped. But this is not so.

“Her tomb is near Xianyang City and has been venerated ever since. In Xi’an they know the truth. Guifei took her own life so that the man that she loved would be safe, so that the fighting would be over and peace would come again. Guifei, is our equivalent of Merlin. She is revered amongst our kind for her magic and her goodness as well as for her beauty. Young girls have for generations gathered soil from around her grave, hoping that if they use it as a face powder it will make them beautiful too.”

Draco shivered again. He had been listening avidly to Fleur’s story. He could imagine Guifei, so long ago, desperate for the safety of her lover, wanting to save both him and her country. But the mention of Merlin! Maybe that was what the prophecy was hinting at? He’d ask Hermione about it as soon as he could. 

“This book tells of her secrets,” Fleur continued. “Secrets that we share, concubine and Veela. A copy of this book should have been yours from when you were a very small child, Draco. You should have always known these things, just as you should have heard our song.

“This book is not a copy. It has been in my family for a very long time. But I think you should have it. I want it to be yours.”

Draco looked up sharply. He wanted to say no, to give it back, but she closed his fingers around it and squeezed gently.

“It is yours!”

She reached into her pocket and brought out a blue, glass sphere. She set it in the centre of the table and turned it a quarter turn to the right. A soft blue glow appeared in the centre and began to pulsate slowly. “A music globe!” Hermione breathed, reverentially.

Harry said nothing. He just stared at the globe as if he had never seen such a thing before.

“This holds the music that is our heritage,” Fleur said. “I will play it for you.”

As she spoke a voice of unsurpassable beauty began to sing. The song echoed through the room in which they sat, seeping deeply into Draco, into his very bones. The singer had a true soprano voice, clear and beautiful, and the Italian words were mesmerizing. She sang of loss, of emotion, of love everlasting. To Draco it seemed that she spoke to him alone, spoke of all that he knew and had always known but which had been locked away inside him for far too long.

As he was immersed in the music he could feel Harry beside him, really feel him, as if a barrier had been removed, a veil lifted. He could feel Harry’s heart beat as if it were his own. His breathing became attuned to Harry’s. He felt each movement that Harry made as if it were his own. When Harry blinked it was as if thunder had awakened. Harry’s tears at the glory of the song sounded to Draco like torrential rain and he felt as if he had been bathed in delight and sorrow.

At last there was silence. For a very long time, no one spoke or moved, each wrapped in thoughts that they could not share.

“That’s Puccini,” Hermione finally said. “Madam Butterfly.”

“Yes, it is from an opera, a Muggle Opera. Puccini did not know of magic. He based his opera on a fictional tale of a Japanese woman tricked into “marriage” to a man who did not want her. But the music, oh the music. That is the song of the concubine. So somehow, at sometime, he must have heard our songs.

“Of course!” Hermione exclaimed. “This singer is a Muggle. There is no magic in her voice, but her voice is truly beautiful, is it not?”

Fleur stood awkwardly, for she was very pregnant indeed, but her hand still held Draco’s. He looked up at her, totally bewildered. He didn’t know what to say.

“We still have much to discuss, little one,” she said softly. “But not tonight. Tonight you must rest and do not let yourself be overwhelmed by these new feelings that you have. You control them, they do not control you.” She leaned over and placed a kiss on Draco’s head and then, leaning heavily on Bill, allowed herself to be led from the room.

Draco looked down at the book in his lap, he ran his fingers over the characters that were etched into the cover. He could not read them but he knew what they said all the same. 

Guifei’s Story.

He felt utterly overwhelmed. How could he control this? He could feel Harry, truly feel him, almost as if he were subsumed by him. Draco could almost taste the maelstrom of emotions that were coursing through Harry, emotions which currently seemed dominated by confusion, tenderness and a germinating seed of love.

Fleur had nearly left the room when Draco felt a surge of intense curiosity, and knew that it was not his, but Harry’s.

“Fleur! Do all concubines sing?” 

She stopped and turned to look at Harry, her expression was sad. Draco realised that all the time she had been there she had hardly acknowledged Harry’s presence, all of her concentration had been centered on him.

“They sing for their lovers, Harry. They do not share their voices, except occasionally, with their own kind.”

“Draco… um… he would have sung beautifully, wouldn’t he?” Harry asked, a wave of sadness surging through Draco as Harry spoke.

“Draco would have had the voice of an angel,” Fleur replied, “if it had not been so cruelly destroyed.” Then, for the final time, she took turned and left the room, her husband by her side.

******************


	8. Seven  the influences of the past. Part three

Cyndie and Claudia, I love you girls *hugs*

 

Chapter 7 - The Influences of the Past: Part Three

 

Harry couldn’t sleep. He was lying on the sofa in the kitchen whence he had come after tucking Draco in and making sure he was asleep in the bedroom upstairs. He couldn’t help but feel confused when he tried to analyze his feelings for his erstwhile enemy. They had battled so hard at school, but when Draco had no-longer been there Harry had missed him as if an integral part of himself were gone. Was that some kind of sign, should that convey some meaning to him?

Draco was fine. Harry had waited until Draco’s eyes had closed and his breathing grown even, until he had relaxed, exhausted by the day’s revelations. Then he had snuck out, leaving the other man cuddled down in a nest of pillows and duvets. Draco had been lying on his back and snoring very softly, when Harry had seen him last. 

Harry thought it was sweet. But he squashed that thought quite ruthlessly. He shouldn’t be thinking those things about Draco, he really shouldn’t. He knew they were bonded now, mated, but Harry wasn’t at all sure just how he felt about it, let along how Draco felt. Unbelievably, it had only been four days since he had defeated Voldemort, four days since he and Hermione had found Draco, and Harry was worried that things were progressing at far too rapid a pace.

How he felt about Draco was so unexpected, such strength of emotion! He had never felt like this about anyone before. He felt tender towards the blond man, protective of him. He half suspected that he was falling in love with him. He couldn’t even seem to care about the fact that Draco was a boy. 

Harry smiled to himself as he remembered doing quite a lot of worrying when he had first slept with Seamus. Seamus was similar to Harry in some ways; thanks to his heritage he, too, had one foot in the Muggle world and one foot in the Wizarding one. So he understood the prejudices that Harry had grown up with only too well. But refreshingly, Seamus didn't care. He simply was what he was – a halfblood, gay wizard – and if anyone had a problem with that then they could just fuck off as far as he was concerned.

His attitude helped Harry enormously. 

Harry had gotten a little merry – too much Ogden’s after an impromptu Quidditch match and, quite simply, Seamus had seduced him. By the time it was all over – and a very nice time it was, too – Harry had decided that he very probably was gay… because he had had a much better time with Seamus than he had _ever_ had with anyone else, especially Ginny.

The fallout had been long and loud and filled with tears – Ginny’s not Harry’s. She had ranted and raved and dragged Ron and Hermione into the argument and Harry had ended up feeling like a complete and utter shit. Then Seamus had entered the fray and pointed out, rather snarkily as a matter of fact, that he would never have put the move on someone else’s boyfriend but, as he had seen Ginny reacquainting herself with Dean’s tonsils using her tongue only the day before, he had sort of assumed that she and Harry were on the out! 

“I might be a slut!” he had said, in his indomitable way. “But I don’t mess in me own back yard. Though, if you don’t stop fecking about with me mates I might just have to break a rule about laying one on a woman! Notice there, Gin, that I didn’t say lady!”

Then, of course, Ron had waded into the argument pointing out that he had to defend his sister’s honour and Seamus had pointed out in turn that he doubted Ginny had any and it had all descended into a rather messy fist fight.

Consequently, the whole issue of Harry’s virginity and the fact that he had lost it to a boy had been rather overshadowed, especially as both Ron and Seamus had had to spend a couple of days in the hospital wing nursing bruises and re-growing hexed off bits of anatomy.

When Seamus had recovered he had told Harry quite frankly that, while he liked him a lot, he was definitely not looking for anything long term, thank you very much; which was just as well, because at that point Harry wasn’t certain that he would be able to hang on for the long haul anyway – especially as there had been a certain Dark Lord to deal with.

Perhaps because Seamus had been Harry’s first ever lover he couldn’t help but adopt Seamus’ somewhat cavalier attitude to a certain extent. He had had a bit of a wobble about the whole gay thing, but the ever helpful Seamus had told him things were a lot more easy going in the wizarding world when it came to sex and that, “You shouldn’t listen to those arse-wipes that you had to live with Harry… sure’n your uncle had his head so far up his own arse that he had to wipe his fecking nose with bog roll!” Seamus had told him that nobody in the wizarding world gave a toss about who they slept with – hence all the half giants and other weird combinations. It was the poor kids that had to suffer the prejudice. 

“So fuck a man Harry, that’s what I say!” the Irishman had continued. “Then you don’t have to worry about any little accidents!” 

It had taken Harry a wee while to understand exactly what it was that Seamus had said to him, thanks to the fact that his erstwhile lover had done some serious damage to a bottle of Ogden’s finest, “for the pain, Harry! I need it for the pain!” He had been close to passing out but not before giving Harry an incredibly intense blow job. “Just for old time’s sake, gorgeous!” He had slipped into unconsciousness soon thereafter and they had never discussed it again. But occasionally, when no-one else was looking Seamus would send him a wink and one of those charming smiles of his.

In retrospect Harry couldn’t think of anyone better than Seamus to lose your virginity to. He was smart and funny and very experienced. He was currently sleeping his way around Australia and sent Harry postcards from time to time, detailing his latest exploits. He had met up with a group of men who called themselves ‘bears’ and had written to Harry to tell him that he was currently trying to find out exactly what they did do in the woods.

But that didn’t help Harry with his latest dilemma. He sighed as he shifted on the lumpy sofa. When he had found Draco and rescued him, and in true Gryffindor fashion, he dove right in there, hugging him, kissing his nose, _protecting him._ He had never really stopped to consider how Draco might be feeling about it all. Not until the conversation with Fleur the night before. 

When the issue of the two of them being mated had first come up, he had sensed concern in Draco and had thought Draco was worried about Harry being cross or angry with him; but perhaps that was not the case? He couldn’t get some of Draco’s unguarded thoughts out of his own head. Draco had never been given a choice. Draco had been forced, by his father, by Voldemort. Now Harry wondered, rather desperately, if he was doing the same, forcing himself on Draco albeit in a much subtler way. He wasn’t about to rape Draco, or hurt him in any way. But what if Draco _thought_ that he would make him have sex, what if he had only bonded with Harry because he had no other option?

Harry didn’t quite know who to ask for advice. He was laying here in the darkness ticking off options in his head. He couldn’t ask Arthur, who might have seemed like an obvious choice because, well, he didn’t quite trust Arthur’s point of view after his recent comments. He felt the same about Ron and the rest of the Weasleys. He couldn’t ask Fleur, either, as she was very obviously on Draco’s side, which was great as far as Harry was concerned because Draco needed all the allies that he could get. Sadly it also ruled out Bill, who probably, Harry thought, understood better than anyone. But the poor guy had given up enough of his time for them already, and he did have his hands very full with a wife who was about to give birth at any moment.

He couldn’t ask Remus either. For one thing, Remus was out of the country for a few weeks, and, secondly, he felt too close to Remus in a fatherly sort of way. He could ask him a lot of things but this was potentially embarrassing and he wanted someone a little more removed emotionally. 

So who else was there? Snape? As the idea crossed his mind Harry could almost feel brain cells killing themselves at the thought of discussing anything so sensitive with him! Besides he was Draco’s support too. Harry might think his ex-potions professor was a slimy, two-faced git, but Draco cared for him very much; a fact that was very evident to Harry. 

Hermione? Could he talk to her? He thought about her for several moments and then discarded her as an option. Hermione was too much like a sister to Harry and he just didn’t think he could discuss his intimate feelings with her.

Then he thought of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry liked Kingsley. He trusted him without being emotionally connected. In fact, just this morning Kingsley had sent him an owl asking Harry to meet with him. Kingsley was an Auror. Harry was sure that he would not be shocked, that he would give Harry fair and unprejudiced advice and tell him what to do. Yes, Kingsley was perfect! 

In the meantime, he tried, once again, to get to sleep on the lumpy couch. He remembered how much he wanted to join Draco as he had settled him in the big bed. He had desperately wanted to be with him, to hold him, to kiss away his pain; but it would not yet be right. Instead he had contented himself with holding the young concubine’s hand and stroking his hair whilst he had drifted off to sleep. That was all he was going to do at this point. He was not going to push Draco in any way. If the time ever came when Draco wanted Harry then it would just take one word and Harry would come running. But Harry knew the choice and the timing would have to be Draco’s.

He was better down here, really he was; Harry kept telling himself this as he sighed and tried to get comfortable yet again. Most of the house was still a mess. Harry had only fixed up a couple of rooms which included his bedroom and the kitchen, oh, and the sitting-room. But the sitting room was a bit austere in Harry’s opinion and he preferred the kitchen, even if sleeping on the sofa here was only slightly more comfortable than lying on top of a brick wall. He tried to wriggle around so that a particularly hard lump which was sticking into his upper spine was a bit lower down, near the small of his back, where there was a natural hollow. But to do that he had to stick his legs over the arm of the sofa which was even less comfortable. Maybe the floor would be better?

Harry turned over on to his side to see if that would help and came face to face with Kreacher. He couldn’t help it, he yelped.

Kreacher had left Hogwarts when Dumbledore died and come back to Grimmauld Place. He skulked in corners muttering to himself and stolen bits of broken furniture or Black ephemera to secrete away. Dobby popped in from time to time to keep an eye on the sad old elf, but even he had stayed away since Draco’s hysterical reaction to him. It had taken Hermione several hours to finally calm Dobby down after Draco had been so upset. Dobby remembered him as a small child and had wanted to help. But Harry had personal experience of the sort of help that Dobby offered and didn’t think that Draco was up to it right now.

Lately, however, Kreacher had been completely absent. He hadn’t even been hiding in corners, muttering about Mudbloods and blood-traitors. Harry had forgotten all about him, in fact.

But right this minute the little creature’s face was close to Harry’s and he could feel his breath on his cheek.

“I don’t thinks you look very cosy, Master.” Kreacher said in his raspy voice. “I think that Master looks very bumpy.” He stretched out that last word as if it were elastic. Kreacher always said the word master as if it were a curse, but that was okay, because Harry hated that word.

Harry sighed.

“What can I do for you, Kreacher?” he inquired, at the same time pushing himself into a seated position and wincing a little at the stiffness in his back.

“Maybe Kreacher could help Master to be a bit more comfortable?” Kreacher said.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Kreacher, why would you want to make me comfortable? You hate me!”

The elf wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes; instead he peered at him from the corner of his own giant green orbs.

“An elf just wants to help his master.” 

Harry couldn’t help it, he laughed. It was a short and bitter laugh but was a laugh none-the-less. “Kreacher I have been your “master” for nearly four years now; you never wanted to help me before. Why would now be any different?”

“Master, is a kind Master.”

“Master is a cranky Master who hasn’t had any sleep and if a certain elf doesn’t tell me what the heck is going on then that particular elf is going to get his arse kicked!” 

“Kreacher doesn’t think so, Master. Oh no, no, no! Master Harry has never hit Kreacher and Kreacher was wondering about that. Master has never been cruel. I’s been watching you. Master is never being cruel.” Kreacher had narrowed his eyes at Harry as if he were some fascinating puzzle that the elf was trying to solve. “Master is not even cruel to Dobby!” Kreacher wore such a look of astonishment at this pronouncement, as if Dobby would drive a saint to extreme measures, that Harry was hard pressed not to laugh again.

“Well, Kreacher!” Harry growled softly. “If you don’t let me get back to sleep then you might find that I will make an exception tonight just for you!”

Then it was Harry’s turn to feel astonished because Kreacher smiled.

“Master hasn’t been sleeping, Master is too uncomfortable.” Kreacher closed his eyes briefly and all at once Harry wasn’t lying on a lumpy, hard sofa anymore. He was lying instead on a firm but comfortable bed.

“There! That is so much better for Master’s back.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“Kreacher, what the fuck is going on?” 

“Kreacher might have got Master wrong before,” the elf said. “Kreacher might have thought Master to be a worthless, traitorous halfblood.” He couldn’t seem to meet Harry’s eyes when he said this.

“And you don’t think that anymore?”

“No, Master, Kreacher doesn’t. Kreacher has seen Master with his pretty dragon. The dragon is all broken but Master is trying to mend him.”

Harry pinched himself. He surely had to be dreaming. He could not be having this conversation with a demented house-elf in the wee small hours.

“Ouch!” he said to himself. “That hurt! Not a dream then!”

“Kreacher,” Harry continued, “you have transformed a nice bed for me to sleep on and we are having the first civil conversation that we have ever had because I have been kind to _Draco?”_

Kreacher’s eyes got wider, his bat ears spread themselves so that they seemed enormous and he nodded earnestly.

Harry leaned back against some cushions that had definitely not been there mere moments before.

“Why?” he said.

“The pretty dragon has been hurt very bad!” Kreacher mumbled. “He makes our hearts sore. We wants to make him better.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that.

“So it isn’t just you, Dobby feels the same?”

Kreacher nodded. “And the one who is full of sorrow, she is sad for the dragon, too. She wants to help. We all does.”

“Winky? Winky feels sorry for Draco, too?”

Kreacher didn’t say anything this time. He just stared at Harry unblinkingly.

Harry put his head in his hands. He was tired. Bone achingly tired. He wanted to sleep but his head was spinning at this bizarre twist in a day which had already spun wildly out of control.

“He is frightened of you,” Harry finally said. “House-elves helped torture him; he was terrified of Dobby the other day. Why would you want to help him?”

“The dragon is broken and we wants to help fix him. It is bad elves that help break him. Elves is there to mend not to break, never to break.”

Kreacher was staring at Harry with a fierce intensity.

“The elves that broke him was broken, too.” Kreacher whispered.

Harry’s head went right back into his hands. He felt truly lost now. This was a development that he had not expected, not in his wildest dreams. He was tempted to pinch himself again but he could see a bruise blossoming where he had pinched himself before. Nope, definitely not a dream.

He felt a small hand on his knee. He lifted his head and found himself staring into the small lined face of the old house elf.

“Would Master like a drink?” 

Harry felt like crying, or laughing hysterically. “Oh go on then,” he managed. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

Ten minutes later he and Kreacher were sitting at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea and a packet of chocolate digestives between them.

It had taken Harry a bit of work to persuade the elf that he wouldn’t have anything to drink unless Kreacher joined him but now they were sitting side by side and Harry was trying to hide his disgust at the fact that Kreacher had taken thirteen spoons of sugar in his tea. Who knew that elves had such a sweet tooth? Or maybe it was just Kreacher?

“How do you think you could help him, then?” Harry said, with interest. “He is very frightened and I have to warn you, Kreacher, I saw his memories. I can see why he would be frightened. He might not want any of you to go anywhere near him.”

“We would have to go near him, Master,” Kreacher grumbled earnestly. His elf feet dangled high above the floor as he sat perched on the battered kitchen chair. Harry couldn’t help but be drawn to them. He idly watched Kreacher curl and uncurl his toes. At the same time, in the back of his mind, he wondered how a grumble could sound earnest.

“It would be necessary, you sees, if we is to give him back his voice.”

Having just taken a large mouthful of tea, Harry nearly choked. Hot liquid went spurting in a great arc across the table and Kreacher just tutted at him and went to fetch a cloth.

*************

Draco sat up with a jolt. His dreams had been pleasant until just a moment beforehand. He could not remember anything specific about them, just a lot of jumbled images. Hands again, always hands. Probing him, poking at him. Touching in a manner he seemed powerless to prevent.

His first waking thought was of Harry’s whereabouts. The room was empty apart from himself. It wasn’t light yet, but the darkness was less thick. Draco assumed that it was just before dawn. He tried to still his panicked breathing. He was surrounded by pillows, covered by a fluffy duvet, still snuggled in the nest Harry had built for him; but, apart from the cosy cocoon that he occupied, the bed was cold and empty.

He searched his thoughts, he couldn’t feel Harry. It was almost as if he had switched off his emotions. He must be asleep… of course, he was asleep. But if that was the case, why was he not here with Draco? What if he wasn’t asleep, what if he had gone? Draco felt overcome with terror. He couldn’t be alone, he just couldn’t. His breathing quickened again and he could feel his panic mounting. What if Harry had been taken! What if Draco had upset him, smothered him by forcing a bond. What if he was getting fed up with Draco’s neediness and he had felt a need to leave. 

Where was he?

The room was gradually getting lighter, which meant there were shadows now where there had been only deep, inky darkness before. Draco screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see those shadows; they were too scary, too deep. Draco knew what sort of horror could hide in shadows. If he didn’t look, if he couldn’t see them, then perhaps they wouldn’t be there. His music globe was just beside the bed. He knew that because Harry had placed it there last night and it had played what Draco had come to think of as Guifei’s song before he fell asleep.

If he reached out just a little way, just a little bit, then he could touch the globe, activate it. He shifted in the covers readying himself. It was just there. If only he could open his eyes he would be able to see it, touch it. Fleur had given it to him and it was safe, not a trick. It was charmed to play at a simple touch, that was all he needed to do.

He heard someone whimper and froze. Oh Merlin who was here! The sound of his heart thumping filled his ears like thunder. 

The whimper came again and Draco realised that it was him; he was the one who was whimpering. _“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”_ He grabbed his pillow instead and clutched it close to him. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t put his arm out there in the darkness. The bedside table seemed too far away. Many miles, the other side of the moon. Of course, it wasn’t… it was very close, but Draco couldn’t make himself touch it. He needed to have someone close. He needed Harry.

_Harry!_ He thought the name, like a charm. He burrowed down into the sheets as far as he could.

_Oh Harry!_

Draco started violently as the door crashed open. Oh, Circe! They were coming for him, they were here. They had over powered Harry! All of his senses were screaming at him “Run… Hide!”

His whimpering increased.

“Draco?”

Harry’s voice. Cutting through his fears, drowning him in relief.

_Harry! Oh Harry, where were you?”_

Draco winced at the whiny note that he could hear in his mental voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry murmured soothingly. “ Was downstairs in the kitchen.”

Draco felt a warm, firm hand grasp his own. He clutched at it, desperate to stop the sickening fear that was engulfing him.

_“Please don’t leave me!”_

Another hand was stroking his hair now.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’m here now, it’s fine love, it’s fine.”

Draco's breathing slowed. His heart stopped pounding like the Hogwarts express when it was going over the Glenfinnan viaduct.

_“I thought you had gone.”_

“No, Draco, it’s okay. I won’t leave you, remember? I promised. I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”

Draco let out a sigh of relief.

_“Never? Promise?”_

“I promise I won’t leave you. I was just downstairs, Draco. Giving you some space.”

_“Don’t want space! Space gets filled with things that want to hurt me!”_ ”

Draco winced. He couldn’t seem to control his thoughts. Merlin he was so fucking needy! Harry would run for the hills, Draco knew he would. Draco would have done so, if the situation had been reversed. But it wouldn’t have been would it? Harry would never have been this weak, this needy. Fuck, he was so useless. 

“No you’re not, Draco. You are not useless. Anyone would be terrified after what you’ve been through. Even me!” 

_“Don’t leave me? Please?”_ Draco couldn’t help himself, he had to ask again. 

“Well, I might pop down to get some breakfast later, but I’m not going anywhere else without you, not today.”

Draco waited for him to say something else. He wanted Harry to say not ever. To promise Draco that he would stay right beside him, within reach for the rest of their lives. Draco couldn’t ever imagine wanting to be alone ever again. He wanted Harry! But he squashed that thought. He had already drowned Harry in emotion, forced him to bond, he couldn’t ask anymore. He felt a wave of sadness from Harry and opened his eyes to peer at the other man.

The room had lightened even more and the shadows receded – for now at least.

Harry looked terrible. His hair was even worse than usual, sticking out every which way, his clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them and he definitely needed to shave. Harry looked like no-one cared for him, like no one had ever looked after him. With a lurch Draco realised that, very probably, no one ever had. He had made a promise to himself, just the other day, that he would be the one to look after Harry. He wouldn’t let Harry down. He simply had to get a bit stronger first. 

He remembered conversations from the common room when he was still at Hogwarts: rumours about Harry’s Muggle relatives; the occasional bruises that he sported; his thinness at the start of each year; the horrible clothes that he wore.

They had been dismissed, of course, those rumours. The teachers wouldn’t have allowed those things to happen, not to Harry Potter, not to the hero of the wizarding world. Draco had only been here a few days, but he was coming to understand that maybe the adults in Harry’s life had ignored the signs the children had all seen. Maybe Harry’s purpose had seemed more important than his welfare. But Harry had fulfilled his purpose, hadn’t he? What was he meant to do now?

Draco reached up to touch the stubble that had appeared on Harry’s face over night.

_“Merlin, Harry, you need a shave!”_

Harry smiled and his eyes lit up with what Draco thought might be suppressed laughter.

“Yeah, I know!” he said ruefully. He wiggled his eyebrows in an expression that was becoming very familiar to Draco. “Don’t I look handsome anymore, then?”

Draco snorted, a choked off laugh that left him feeling so very much better, even if it was only fleeting.

_“I had a dream.”_ He felt like he needed to defend himself, explain his neediness.

“Was it a bad one?”

Draco shrugged. _“Don’t remember. I just needed you. I’m sorry”_

“S’okay, but do you think I could get some circulation back now?” Harry said, indicating his hand.

Draco blushed. _“Sorry!”_ he loosened his grip, but he didn’t let go. He wasn’t planning on letting go for a long time yet.

_“What time is it?”_

Harry cast Tempus. “4.20am.”

_“Oh!”_

Draco yawned.

_“Sleepy now!”_

“Yeah me, too!”

_“Will you…will you put the music on Harry?_

“Yeah, sure! You know, I never saw one of these until today,” mused Harry. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugged. _“It is a very simple one, some of them have lots of music on them and you have to think of the piece that you want before it will play.”_

Draco felt rather sad that Harry had never seen a simple music globe before. How many things did he not know about the magical world? Perhaps Draco could show him these, as part of his plan to look after him. Draco had the feeling that Harry had not had many people to look after him in his life. Not like Draco. Draco had been spoiled and loved and cosseted, until… until… he did not want to think about that. He would not think about it.

Harry twisted himself a bit and then reached behind him and touched the globe with the tips of his fingers and the aria that Fleur had played the night before filled the room. Draco snuggled down. He made sure not to hold Harry’s hand too tight. But he wasn’t planning on letting go this time either.

When he woke again, Harry had sort of wrapped himself round him. He didn’t look very comfortable; one of his legs was on the bed, the other on the floor. 

Draco lay there for a while and watched him sleep. Dark lashes curled on his cheeks. There was a faint hint of pink on his cheekbones as if Harry were just a tiny bit too hot. That was perfectly possible because Harry was still fully dressed and the room was pretty warm. 

Dark stubble decorated his chin, it looked bristly to Draco. He reached out with his free hand and touched it. It felt like the soft brush that Narcissa used to brush his hair when he was a child. Harry sighed and Draco smiled. He couldn’t bear the thought of ever being without Harry now. He wasn’t sure whether it was the strength of the bond, or something else. One thing was certain, Draco could not remember how he used to feel about Harry. He could vaguely remember the anger that he had once felt towards Harry, the fury, the jealousy, but those feelings seemed to belong to someone else. They were no longer his.

Those coal black lashes flickered and Harry’s eyes opened. 

“Morning, sunshine!” he said.

Seven minutes later Draco was standing outside the bathroom door. Harry had offered to go and get breakfast for them both. But Draco could not bear to be parted for that long, so he told Harry he wanted to be up and about and hoped Harry didn’t realise he was lying. He thought Harry might be disgusted with him if he realized he couldn’t stand to let his mate out of his sight for more than a few minutes at a time. He had been with Harry almost constantly since he had been rescued. Either Harry or Hermione. They were the only people Draco felt safe with. Even being with Severus had terrified him and the one time Harry had left him alone that aweful woman Umbridge had come and said those horrible things. Draco shuddered just thinking about it.

He was trying to pretend that he just needed to go to the loo and not that he wanted to claw the door open and clutch at Harry. He thought he would be okay when it was his turn in the bathroom but he didn’t know if he could wait alone on this side of the door for much longer.

_“Oh fuck, I am getting worse!”_ he told himself. _“Harry is going to hate me.”_

Luckily, just as Draco was clenching his hands into fists in preparation for banging them on the door, it opened and Harry came out.

He still looked dishevelled. It was hard to believe that he had done anything in the bathroom, apart form the fact that he now smelled of shampoo and had obviously shaved.

He was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and Draco found himself blushing. Harry was just perfect. Smaller than Draco now. At somepoint in the last few days, Draco must have grown, but Draco would think about that later, he only wanted to think about Harry. Harry’s chest was firm, his belly flat and his skin was an even, light tan. Draco thought he looked beautiful. He wanted to touch Harry. But he couldn’t because if he touched him then Harry might want to touch Draco, too, touch him in that way and Draco didn’t think he could stand that! Not yet. Maybe not ever! 

If Harry was surprised at finding Draco right outside the door he did not show it. He just smiled that shy smile of his and stood aside to let Draco pass.

It was okay in the bathroom. It felt safe; he was surrounded by shiny tiled walls, a tiny window, and a door he could barricade if he had to. Draco knew it was safe in here.

What if Harry didn’t wait! The thought came out of nowhere. Panicking he wrenched open the door. Harry had pulled on some jeans and had a t-shirt half over his head. 

_“Wait Harry! Don’t go downstairs without me, will you?”_

He wondered if Harry could hear the note of panic in his mental voice. But he couldn’t seem to moderate it. He did feel panicked!

But Harry said nothing. He just smiled, nodded and then sat on the bed and waited. 

Sometime later Harry let Draco hold his arm as they went down the stairs to the kitchen and patted his hand as Draco jumped at every noise, real or imagined. He was kind and sweet and patient and he didn’t make a single comment about Draco’s cowardice.

************** 

Harry sat at the kitchen table watching Draco write notes to Hermione. She was chatting away to the other man and every so often he would reach out and touch her. It was as if he needed to reassure himself that she was there, that she wouldn’t hurt him.

He was in a quandary and not quite sure what to do. Unsurprisingly Draco was hurting. Harry kept getting short fragments of thoughts, jumbled images of panic and pain. He tried hard not to hear them. He wanted to give Draco some privacy, but his young mate seemed to be getting worse. Draco was so wounded, so badly damaged, Harry wondered if he was enough, if he would be able to take care of Draco, help him. 

Their outing the day before, their little meeting with Umbridge, had seemed to terrify him. He stared around at everything with large grey eyes, fear written in his every action. And what about this morning? Draco had clung to him all morning. Harry didn’t mind, he really didn’t. He had never had anyone to take care of before; but Draco needed serious help – possibly more, Harry thought, than he was qualified to give!

Harry knew Kingsley would be arriving at Grimmauld Place any minute now and he was going to take this opportunity to get the older man’s advice. He needed support, he needed to know what to do, how to proceed. They couldn’t stay here forever. Perhaps Draco needed to talk to someone? Get some professional help? He seemed even more fragile than he had only the day before. Harry hadn’t even mentioned Kreacher’s offer to Draco yet. He had mentioned house-elves in passing a short while ago and Draco had become nearly hysterical with anxiety. How would the elves ever be able to help him if Draco couldn’t even bear to talk about them, never mind bring himself to see them?

Snape was coming, too. Draco seemed alright with Snape as long as either he or Hermione were there as well. Harry was desperately tired. He was worried about Draco and a little bit panicked that he had taken on too much. And worse, worse than almost anything else, was the fact that with each passing moment he fell ever more deeply in love with Draco Malfoy.

 

***********************


	9. Eight - Moving Towards the Future

Thank you Cyndie my love

 

Chapter 8 - Moving Towards the Future

 

It was a little past noon and Harry sat at the table beside Kingsley Shacklebolt. It was weird he thought, Kingsley was in exactly the same seat that Kreacher had been sitting in only a few hours before; yet the two could not be more different, well, except for the fact that Harry seemed to be asking the advice of both of them. But, whereas Kreacher had perched on the edge on the chair, believing that he had no right to be there and only consenting to sit after a great deal of persuasion by Harry, Kingsley filled the kitchen with his presence. Kreacher had been tense and uncertain, unable to feel at ease; Kingsley looked comfortable and at home. Kreacher was wizened and hunched while Kingsley was expansive. He wasn’t a particularly big man, bigger than Harry, of course, but not nearly as tall as Ron Weasley, for example; nonetheless, he possessed a confidence, an aura, that ensured he dominated any room he entered. The man was a force to be reckoned with.

He had arrived about twenty minutes ago with Snape in tow. And hadn’t that been uncomfortable, Harry thought somewhat bitterly. He would never like Snape and he was equally sure that the greasy-haired git from his childhood would never like him either.

But Snape did like Draco. Those hard-as-stone eyes of his had softened as he’d looked at Draco and that thin mouth had curved into a gentle smile. Draco had gazed at his godfather with trepidation but had agreed to let himself be led into the sitting room for a chat and a brief examination, while at the same time refusing to let go of Hermione’s hand and she inevitably ended up accompanying them. It was becoming an unspoken but nevertheless universally realised fact that Harry and Snape should not be left alone with Draco… in case they argued and upset him – not that having lots of people about would stop them from getting into a verbal fracas, but at least someone would be available to comfort Draco should such an event occur and if he did, indeed, become distressed. 

So now Draco was in the other room and Harry and Kingsley sat in the kitchen together each holding their ubiquitous cups of tea and ignoring the plate of soggy digestive biscuits that lay between them. 

“Thank you for seeing me, Harry,” Kingsley finally said in his deep, rich voice.

“S’okay,” Harry started, roused from his musings. “I needed to speak to you, too, I… er… I don’t know what to do!”

As Harry blurted out the last few words he winced, not liking how desperate he sounded.

“You had better go first then.” Kingsley responded with a smile. 

So Harry did; he poured out all his worries, all his anxieties, everything he had thought about the night before, and Kingsley sat and listened for what seemed like ages. He didn’t interrupt or ask questions, he just looked at Harry with concern in his warm brown eyes. Harry told him everything, all about the prejudice and the barbed comments he and Draco had faced, the casual cruelty that seemed to follow them everywhere. He also talked about his own feelings of inadequacy in being able to help Draco heal and his worries about his feelings for Draco and his own inexperience. As he spoke he could almost visualise the words tumbling out of his mouth in seeming desperation. He cringed at his candidness but it seemed as if he could hold nothing back from the kind man beside him.

When he finished speaking Kingsley gently took Harry’s hand in his own and squeezed it.

“Well, that was quite a story, Harry,” Kingsley commented with a slight smile. “Shall I tell you what I think about the concerns you’ve voiced here?”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure that he could remember half of what he had said himself, but he was sure he must have sounded pathetic and weak and very, very stupid. It seemed, however, that Kingsley didn’t share that view.

“To begin with, I think Draco is an _extremely_ lucky young man… lucky that it was you who found him. He could not be in better hands, Harry, and I think if you continue to follow those instincts of yours, you will not go very far wrong.

“I do not want to sound patronising, but you are very young Harry, and in many ways you are very innocent.” Kingsley said softly. 

Harry blushed and looked away; he wished he hadn’t told the other man about his complete lack of experience, but he had needed advice.

“Despite this, you do have very good instincts,” said the older man encouragingly. “After what Draco has been through he will be terrified of sexual intimacy.”

Harry could feel his cheeks heating up when the other man mentioned sex. 

“But you must also not be ashamed of how you feel,” Kingsley continued. “You are a normal, healthy, young man and Draco is very attractive, of course you are going to desire him. For now, I would let Draco take the lead in your relationship. Let him know he can set the pace, that nothing will happen until he is ready, nothing forced on him ever; but when he is ready you will be there.” 

He turned Harry’s hand over and stroked a thumb over the Malfoy crest that stood out starkly against the pale skin of his wrist. “This could not be here if he did not want you, too.”

“How do you know?”

“My sister-in-law is part Veela. I know what it means when a family crest marks a concubine’s mate, such as the Malfoy crest has marked you, Harry. It is a sign of desire, of deep and abiding love. It is automatic when a concubine or veela and their mate feel this for each other. There is no mistaking it and no denying it.”

Harry’s blush deepened, he was sure that he hadn’t told Kingsley that he desired Draco! Well not in so many words, anyhow.

“But I don’t understand how he could mark me with the crest.” Harry said, puzzled. “No one would address him by his last name, his father has disowned him I think. How could Draco use the family crest.”

Kingsley smiled. “The crest is his by right of blood, Harry. Nothing can take that right away from Draco. Wizard laws have removed his name, but natural laws, magical laws are far stronger. Draco has chosen you as his mate, using magic that is older than time. I suspect that the bond cannot be broken by anything less than death and maybe not even death itself would be enough.” 

Harry blushed and focused on a chocolate stain on the scarred tabletop. 

“Look at me, Harry.” Kingsley commanded.

It was hard; Harry did not want to look up from the table where his gaze had been fixed for almost the entire conversation. He did not want to see contempt or pity in Kingsley’s eyes. But Harry was a Gryffindor mainly because of his brave heart so he forced himself to meet the dark, knowing eyes of the other man.

To Harry’s great relief, Kingsley was smiling and his eyes betrayed nothing but a sort of warm regard. Harry’s flush deepened even further and he felt like his face was on fire. He had never, ever talked to an adult man like this. If Sirius had not died, then he might have talked to Sirius although he suspected Sirius would have been in the same category as Remus, a father figure to whom talking about this kind of thing would have just been too awkward and embarrassing. There simply was no one else that he could have talked to; not even Arthur or one of the older Weasleys, whom Harry might have picked before their initial reactions to Draco had shocked him so deeply. Oh, they had rallied round now, and were being helpful and supportive, but Harry knew deep down that he still didn’t quite trust them at the moment. Looking, now, into Kingsley's sympathetic eyes, Harry decided he had made the right choice, no matter how embarrassing the subject matter might get.

“But what if I hurt him?” Harry blurted. “I couldn’t bear it if I hurt him! He is so weak right now, so damaged. He seems so fragile and sometimes… lately… he is very good looking and I want to kiss him, to hold him, to…” Harry broke off, he could not finish that sentence. “I… I have to leave, what if I frighten him or hurt him?”

“You are a normal teenaged boy,” Kingsley said. “Of course you have these feelings. You must talk to Draco about them, tell him how you feel. He needs to be part of the process, Harry, and not just the end result of it. Let him look after you, too.”

“But he seems so broken!” Harry exclaimed. “I have to look after him.”

“I saw him the night you found him and he _was_ fragmented then, no question. But I have had to learn to read people quite well in my profession. The young man who accompanied Severus into the sitting room just now is not broken. He is certainly very fragile and there is no doubt that he has been very badly hurt but he is trying very hard, I think, to be strong.”

“Oh, he is strong!” Harry said fervently. “He still needs me, but he has been so brave! I just don’t want to pressure him or force him into anything.”

“Harry, you are a very fine young man but you need to have this conversation with Draco. You need to give him choices, not protect him from making them. He is not a child. If he has choices then he will begin to heal. Tell him what you have told me, about your feelings and your desires, about Kreacher’s offer, and let him help you help him. You understand, Harry, what I’m saying? Don’t believe those who tell you he is helpless, an animal, because he is not. Such beliefs are nothing but ignorance.”

“But I don’t believe that!” Harry said indignantly.

“Then be there for him, but don’t smother him. He is a man, a damaged man, one who has been desperately hurt, but a man nevertheless. Let him be what he should be Harry, not what prejudice has forced him to become.

“I know a lot about prejudice.” Kingsley said seriously. “It is insidious and chips away at society if left unchallenged… bit by bit, until even decent people come to believe lies and bigotry. Only you know how strong Draco is, don’t believe those who would tell you he is weak. Let him be the best that he can be. And, Harry, believe me – as I say this in all honesty – with you helping him, I think Draco can be brilliant.”

Kingsley got up, refilled their tea cups, and settled back down in his seat. “I have met prejudice myself many times, both in the Muggle world and in the magical one. I am practically Muggleborn, Harry,” he continued. “My mother was a squib. She suffered prejudice all her life and married a Muggle when nobody in the magical world wanted to know her, when person after person turned their back on her.

“We lived in Jamaica when I was very small. It’s where my father came from and my mother moved there to be with him. Being a squib or a witch didn’t matter so much there. The distinction between the magical and Muggle worlds is almost non-existent in the Caribbean. My brother, my sister and myself were very happy, we loved it there. When I was seven my mother died and my father brought us to Britain; that’s when I really learned what bigotry was.

“Back then, in the 1960s, Britain was a country riddled with racism.” Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Kingsley held up a hand, “Oh, I know it is not like that now, but when I was a child it was very different. My father was an educated man but he could not find employment; we even found it hard to find somewhere to live. For years I was bullied and picked on at school because of the colour of my skin. Luckily I was quite a big boy, so I could stand up for myself. My brother, being smaller, had a harder time and my sister, well… girls can be really cruel to each other; my sister spent half of her childhood in tears. I could not believe it when I entered the magical world and no-one even noticed my colour. Instead certain of my school mates were far more interested in my Muggle upbringing – and that has still not changed, Harry. 

“I’m going to tell you some things now, Harry, things that have been going on in our world for some time and are escalating fast since the fall of Voldemort. I want to listen carefully and think about what I’m saying. This affects you as much as it does Draco. You are a hero, whether you want to be or not, and that brings with it certain expectations and responsibilities. What you do is noticed and talked of. You have a lot of power and influence right now – but you are not infallible. You are, in fact, still a teenage boy who has not yet graduated from Hogwarts.

“The magical world is still full of prejudice. Those to whom blood is still important and those who covertly supported Voldemort’s beliefs once, and only turned against him when his madness took over, are still out there. Just because they stopped following a creature eaten up by insanity, doesn’t mean they don’t still hold those beliefs, or that they are prepared to willingly give up the power they have managed to procure. 

“If you were prepared to keep Draco quietly hidden away in private, no notice would be taken of your owning him. As it is, you are bringing him to the forefront of society and trying to establish a concubine as an equal. In essence, you are trying to change a social belief concerning a magical creature, however wrong and prejudiced, that has existed for centuries. In the current social and political climate this will not be well received. Because of this both you and Draco will find yourselves the target of resentment and hostility by some and outright hatred by others. 

“There is still a lot of fear of those who are different. Because of the severe slaughter and mayhem that Greyback and his werewolves caused, along with other creatures Voldemort used, fear of all magical creatures, harmless or not, is at an all time high. There are many in the Ministry who will play on those fears to gain power. Wizarding society needs a scapegoat to blame things on and those persons in charge need to be seen as ‘doing something about it to protect wizarding society in the future’.

Ministry propaganda is strong and there has been much talk lately about severely restricting the freedoms of all magical creatures. Your friend Umbridge has been behind a lot of it. But, since yesterday, she is on the warpath about concubines. You know she hates you with a passion, Harry. She would do anything to hurt you and she knows she can do this through Draco. Umbridge is now trying to get legislation pushed through that would force Draco to be chained and collared at all times and, if she can manage it, barred from appearing in public ever. Not just Draco, of course, but all concubines. She is using him as a symbol of the whole movement and she is gaining support almost hourly. Although why _anyone_ would listen to that odious little toad is beyond me!”

Harry leapt to his feet. “I won’t let them hurt Draco!” Harry shouted. “They’ll have to go through me first.”

Kingsley looked exasperated. “Listen to me, Harry. They will go through you,” he growled. “They would hurt you to get to him and I cannot sit by and let that happen. We owe you too much. You are young and full of integrity but the Ministry will not play fair. They lie and twist things. They will try to persuade the public you are so enthralled with Draco that you have lost your reason and thus Draco presents a danger to society.”

“But he doesn’t!” Harry exclaimed. “He hasn’t hurt anyone… he isn’t a danger to anyone!”

Kingsley looked infinitely sad. “I know.”

“But what do I do?” Harry asked uncertainly. “What do we do?”

“My advice would be to leave.”

“But…”

“Not just the magical world, leave the UK. Go some place where the two of you can heal, away from the political pressures and dangers. Draco is too fragile right now to heal under those pressures and, if you want my opinion, so are you. You are so young, you have given us so much of yourself. You gave up your childhood, any hope you might have had of finding a family. This is not your battle. There are plenty of others here to fight Umbridge and the Ministry… myself, Dora, Remus, Severus. We’re very able, Harry, and more than willing to take this on. Don’t let yourself and Draco become a target. Give yourselves the chance to heal and become whole and strong again, in both body and mind.”

“But I can’t run away!”

“It isn’t running away, Harry, it is choosing your battles. Go somewhere safe, be young for a change, take a break. You can come back in a few years when the world has changed a little. We will need you then.”

Harry’s eyes prickled with unshed tears.

Kingsley stood up. He held out his hand for Harry to shake. “It has been a great pleasure to know you and work with you, Harry Potter. You are a very fine young man.”

Harry swallowed against the burden of sorrow which had lodged itself in his throat.

“Where would we go?” 

“There are a lot of places where you will be welcome for instance, my own brother would welcome you. I will give you his address and one or two other contacts I have for people who might be able to help. We _will_ help you, Harry. You will not lose our support or our friendship; we just need you to be safe right now.”

****************

After Kingsley left Harry sat by himself for a very long time.

He wasn’t really sure what to make of what Kingsley had told him. He knew the older man was right about the resentment and dislike Draco seemed to inspire in the British wizarding public. But would it really become hatred… and fear? Harry had never run away from injustice; he had always fought evil. 

However, the sort of evil that they were facing now was deeply ingrained, almost unconscious on the part of many. Everywhere they went Harry saw the way Draco was treated, the way that people would not look at him, the way their eyes would slip from his, the way they would back away from him, whisper about him.

When Harry thought of the way Draco had been treated over the last few days he trembled with anger at the unfairness of it all. Even those who Harry had once trusted and admired had not understood. Harry could fight Dark wizards and Basilisks and dragons, but how could he fight such deep seated beliefs? Only Hermione had joined Harry from the start in trying to protect Draco. But now Draco did seem to have his defenders, there did appear to be people who were ready to stand up for what was right. Maybe the two of them were more effective as some sort of symbol? Maybe Draco and Harry were actually in the way right now? Maybe by staying and fighting he would do more harm than good?

He glanced up to see Hermione and Draco standing in the doorway. They were both looking at him worriedly.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Hermione asked him gently.

“No, Herm, I don’t think I am.” Harry was dismayed to hear his voice break a little when he spoke, conveying quite clearly just how not okay he was.

The next thing Harry knew Draco was beside him. The young blond wrapped his arms around Harry and gently stroked his hair. And Harry let go… he allowed himself to be held and comforted and it was so wonderful that he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent that was Draco and, just for a little while, he felt infinitely better.

 

**********

As he held Harry and comforted him, Draco felt strong and in control for the first time in a very long time. Having Harry relax into him, allowing Draco to offer him comfort somehow made Draco feel less broken. Draco thought that if it had not been for Harry and Hermione he would have disintegrated into smithereens. He had been teetering on the edge of insanity for such a long time he could almost see the cavernous dark of madness hovering at the edge of his vision; it was tangible. But by holding Harry and stroking that soft sable hair Draco could sense the darkness retreat, just a little. He did feel stronger, like he was ready to give a little something back. Not much, as yet, but it was a start.

Hermione went to the cupboard and fetched some glasses and a bottle of whisky and set them on the table.

“I think we need this,” she said in a tone that brooked no debate. “Well, I know that I do, anyway!”

Her hand was shaking as she sloshed far too much amber liquid in the glasses. Severus had been poisonous to her. Why had Draco never seen that before? He had sneered and poured sarcasm on her every utterance. He seemed to resent the fact that Draco trusted her, wanted her to be there. Although he didn’t say anything directly to Draco, he hadn’t needed to. The hints dropped had been pointed and heavy enough that they were impossible to miss. Yet, apart from the barbed comments directed at Hermione along with the snide suggestions that she should leave and the constant denigration of everything about her, the potions master had said very little to his godson.

Severus had been sulking. He had spent the entire meeting glaring at Hermione, sneering every time Draco looked at her or reached out to hold her hand. The whole meeting had been excruciating.

Draco wondered if perhaps Severus was feeling guilty and was angry with himself. They had always had a special bond and Draco thought Severus was probably having trouble dealing with the fact he had forgotten that bond and let Draco down when he had needed him the most. He could sense that Severus wanted to see him on his own, but Draco just wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. 

He had always wondered at school why Hermione had not been sorted into Ravenclaw. Even when he hated her he had respected her intelligence. But he truly knew now why she was a Gryffindor. Hermione had stood up well to that acid tongue of Severus’, his scorn and his obvious dislike. But Draco thought she was reaching the limit of her resources, and who could be surprised if that were the case? She and Harry had lived through a myriad of ups and downs over the past few days, but had met each challenge bravely. Hermione had not deserved to be the recipient of Severus’ malice tonight. It suddenly occurred to Draco with a shock that, ever since she had been a small girl, she had _never_ deserved the treatment she had received from the acerbic potions master.

Draco took Harry’s hand and led him over to the table, where Hermione was happily sloshing generous amounts of alcohol into grubby, smeary glasses. She picked up one and downed the tawny liquid in just a few gulps before pouring herself another larger glass.

Draco felt a bit ragged himself, but Harry was white and shaking so Draco breathed deeply and tamped down his own churning emotions so that he could comfort Harry.

“Kingsley says we should go away for a while. He thinks it isn’t safe for us here right now,” Harry supplied wearily. “He thinks that we should leave.”

_“And go where?”_ Draco asked.

“He gave me some addresses of people in other countries who will help us. He said that someone in the Ministry is out to get us. He doesn’t think being here is a good idea right now.”

_“Are they after us, or after me, Harry?”_

Draco had his answer when Harry didn’t reply right away. He bowed his head to hide the hurt but looked up as Harry spoke.

“You, because you are a magical creature and they are after all magical creatures, and me, because I won’t sit back and let them hurt you. Also, he says Umbridge is trying to hurt you to get to me because she hates me so passionately. Either way, it’s not the best atmosphere for us to heal in, at least according to Kingsley.”

“I think Kingsley is probably right, Harry.” Hermione stated in her matter of fact way.

Draco looked at her in astonishment. 

He still couldn’t speak to Hermione, but she was getting very good at reading Draco’s expressions. Her expression became sympathetic. “I just have a bad feeling about all this,” she said.

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. “You don’t have feelings. You have theories and then you go and check them out in the library and then you double check them just in case.”

Hermione smiled, though Harry’s attempt at a joke had been particularly feeble. “Harry, I don’t have to be a pseudo-psychic to know there are plenty of narrow-minded, prejudiced pricks in the wizarding world, and numbered among them, my very nearly ex-boyfriend and his family.”

Draco’s astonishment deepened. Had the Weasleys been against him, too? They hadn’t shown him any prejudice, well, not to his face at least. Fleur had been wonderful and Ron had kept giving him what Draco had thought to be supportive glances. Had he been wrong?

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, answering Draco’s unasked question. “They were a bunch of wankers, but I told them what I thought about them and they got over themselves.”

Hermione smiled again, directly at Draco this time. “He frightened the living daylights out of them, actually, by threatening to hex them into the next century. They came to see his point of view quite quickly in the end.”

Draco laughed and Hermione’s smile widened. “It’s good to hear you laughing!” 

Then her expression softened and she gave him a tender look Draco would never have expected her to direct at him. “They are sorry, Draco, I know they are. They are on your side now. But…” She didn’t finish. They hadn’t always been on his side, had they? Draco thought he could just imagine the sort of pureblood crap they might have spouted; even the Weasleys, it seemed, were not immune to the influences and beliefs of childhood.

Draco smiled back at Hermione. He wanted her to know that he was all right, that he didn’t resent the Weasleys, that he was grateful for Hermione’s unwavering support. The smile would have to be enough. She did read him quite well but he wished he could speak, tell her how much he appreciated her support. 

Hermione drank the rest of her whisky and then stood somewhat uncertainly. “I-I-’m goin… ta leave you… to’t… now,” she said, her voice unsteady, her words slurred. She cleared her throat and tried again a little more successfully. “I think you have lots to discuss so I am going home.”

She turned to leave and wobbled a bit.

“Hermione, are you drunk?” Harry asked, his voice coloured with amusement. 

“No,” Hermione said, obviously trying to seem dignified, something she wasn’t able to pull off very well as she couldn’t seem to stop swaying a little bit with every step she took.

“How much whisky did you have?” 

“Bout half a glass,” Hermione said making a gesture with her thumb and forefinger that was supposed to suggest not very much at all.

Draco spread his hands and let his jaw drop in mock astonishment at Hermione’s little untruth and Hermione giggled. Draco smiled back. He was right, Hermione was good at reading his expressions, even when she was completely squiffy.

“I think you should stay here tonight,” Harry laughed. Hermione stayed at Grimmauld Place most nights, she practically lived there. She had promised to visit her parents soon but Harry didn’t think she had promised she would be there on any particular day.

Hermione hiccupped. 

“Dun worry bout me.” Hermione said, “I’ll be absho…lute… lily fine!” she took two more steps and promptly fell over the rug where she then lay admiring the damp stains on the ceiling, giggling happily and likening the shapes to various animals.

**************

Draco sighed. It had taken them a good half an hour to get Hermione to her room and settled in for the night. Neither of them had been able to bring themselves to undress her so they had settled for taking off her jumper and removing her shoes, and all the while Hermione had told them jokes, told them how much she loved them, and sung songs by, according to Harry anyway, a Muggle pop group called “The Beatles”. Finally Hermione had closed her eyes and been asleep mere seconds later.

She had looked so vulnerable in her unconscious state and Draco realised with a start that he had always thought of Hermione Granger as strong and capable. Which, of course, she was - Severus had ripped her to shreds, taking out his own anger and frustration on the girl, but through it all Hermione had stayed with Draco, not allowing Severus to push her away.

_”Why does she help me?”_ he brushed a stray lock of hair away from Hermione’s cheek, _”I haven’t done anything to deserve her support. Severus was horrible to her today and I couldn’t stop him and I so wish that I could have said something!”_

Harry paled.

“Oh, Draco,” he said. “I have something to tell you, I think we need to have a long talk.”

***************

The following morning Draco lay on the big bed in Harry’s bedroom, propped up with fluffy pillows. He let his fingers drum restlessly on the mattress trying to control his nervousness. In a further attempt to derail his thoughts, he let his mind drift back over the previous night’s revelations.

They had indeed talked for a very long time. Except it wasn’t proper talking, was it? Harry had been right about one thing, though, Draco felt far less isolated now that he and Harry could communicate. But he wanted to _communicate_ with more than just Harry. 

Things would have been so much easier with Severus the previous day if only he could have told Severus for himself that he wanted Hermione to be with him during their meeting. Severus would have known without a doubt how Draco felt and would have been better able to deal with his feelings, knowing Draco needed this to help himself heal. 

And Hermione, he wanted to really talk to Hermione, too, ask her what she thought about the prophecy, discuss her idea about Draco writing down his experiences as a concubine slave. She had hopes they could get something published, thus helping people to understand the true nature of the concubine. It was this idea that had really set Severus off. He had thought it ridiculous, but Draco thought it might be a way of at least beginning to break down misconceptions. 

Draco knew Harry would also try to help, but he was under no illusion as to how and why his mate would be involved. Harry’s reasons for helping would be (1) because he thought Draco wanted him to, and (2) because he felt it was right to rectify prejudice, not because he found the whole thing interesting. Harry’s approach would be physical practicality rather than his and Hermione’s of intellectual stimulation and research. Harry simply would not enjoy the kind of stimulating and deeply philosophical conversations that Draco ached to have with Hermione. He knew Hermione would find the things he had to tell her fascinating and would discuss them with him, analysing them in depth.

These were the compelling and motivating reasons why, during their long discussion, when Harry had told Draco about the house elf’s offer, Draco had agreed to let them try. And why he was now stretched out on the bed trying desperately to keep his panic under control while he awaited the house elves arrival – elves, as in plural… a whole group, not just one. He gave a huge mental sigh and continued the drumming of his fingers. He felt rather than saw Harry join him on the bed.

It had not been an easy decision but Harry had steadfastly refused to pressure him. He had relayed the elf’s offer and then told Draco he must decide for himself whether he wanted them to try or not, at which point Draco had crumbled. He had trembled and sobbed and called Harry all kinds of names and Harry had just remained calm, holding him and stroking his hair, letting Draco rail and berate him. Finally, finally Draco had calmed and eventually, after much soul searching, decided he did indeed want to try. 

And now he wished that he hadn’t! 

In his imaginings he saw the elves who had helped to torture him time and time again. What the Death Eaters had done had been bad, but the elves routinely put them to shame. Sometimes he thought he could still hear their high-pitched laughter as they revelled in his agonised screams.

So now the elves were coming and Draco was trembling violently. Even the sweet weight of Harry’s embrace could not calm him. They were settled on the bed. Harry had made them a sort of nest of pillows. The bed linen smelt clean, it smelt of warm sunshine and fresh summer air, they were snowy white and piled high behind them. Draco thought it was ironic that the pillows that surrounded them and the sheets beneath them had almost certainly been laundered by one of the elves that Draco could hear gathering outside the door.

He didn’t want them to come in. He wanted to change his mind, tell Harry that he didn’t want to do this anymore; but it was too late. His brain and his body were frozen in a rictus of paralyzing fear, he could not move – he could do nothing to stop their arrival.

He saw the door slowly open, he could hear their little feet padding across the stripped wooden floorboards. They made little scratchy noises Draco thought, they sounded like rats. He heard squeaky voices whispering and he just knew that they were planning to hurt him and then he couldn’t hear them anymore because the shrill little whispers had been drowned out by an agonised keening. He wondered who was making the sound, whose soul was being torn to shreds and then he realised, the keening was coming from him. 

He felt the bed dip as the creatures joined Harry and him. He could feel them moving closer, then he felt papery little fingers grasping at his skin, at his arms and hands, thin and sharp and probing.

His keening grew shriller, louder.

Harry was holding him tightly, kissing his neck and whispering supportive, loving words into his ear, but Draco couldn’t seem to hear him, couldn’t move past the terror that was paralysing him. Then, through the fog of his terror, he heard a voice from his early childhood, one that had sung songs and nursery rhymes whenever he had been sad or unable to sleep.

“Master Draco, what did they do to you? Did they hurt you so bad?”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Draco opened his eyes.

There was a familiar face in front of him, a friendly face.

It was an elf, but this one was not glaring at him. Its features were not twisted with glee as Draco writhed in pain beneath him and a gang of tiny torturers. The elf was crying, large, glistening tears were shining wetly on his cheeks.

“Oh, my poor little master!” the elf said, his voice low, as if to reassure the terrified young man.

“Dobby?” he mouthed the word, the name that had been so familiar when he was very small, before he had been removed from Dobby’s company so he could grow up as a proper pureblood should.

“We’s gonna make you better, Master Draco,” Dobby said. His voice didn’t sound shrill and sharp like the house elves who had hurt him… it sounded familiar… it sounded safe.

And with the sight of Dobby and the familiar sound of his voice grounding Draco, the hands that held his didn’t feel wicked anymore, they felt like the echo of a memory of happiness instead.

He closed his eyes again and let himself feel Harry beside him, strong and protective. He listened to Harry’s words telling him he was safe, that Harry would not let him be hurt, and he listened carefully to the chanting of a group of house elves. He didn’t know what they were saying but it sounded comforting, not threatening or hurtful. Amazingly, Draco felt warm and protected. The voices were soothing, lyrical. He felt as if he was being bathed in warmth and light. A tingle started in his chest as the elves continued to sing. It was as if someone was tickling him inside his chest. 

Very gradually the tingling began to feel sharper as if whoever was tickling him were using their finger-nails. Breathing became harder and a sharp sensation, like someone dragging a dagger across his skin, began in his throat. Draco began to struggle a little, panic making it hard for him to catch his breath. What was happening? He had trusted them, were they going to hurt him after all?

The tingling gradually became a burning and it began to hurt, really hurt. It intensified, grew in strength and suddenly Draco was screaming. He should have known they could not be trusted. Why, oh why, had he let himself trust, believe that he would be safe?

“Stop it! Stop it! It hurts! Stop hurting me. Make them stop, Harry!” 

The voice that was shouting, echoing Draco’s mental shout sounded scratchy like something being dragged over gravel. It wasn’t Harry, who could be shouting? Who else was here? Who was witnessing this?

Abruptly the pain stopped.

“Draco? Oh, Draco!” This time it was Harry who had spoken.

Draco looked up at Harry, at the man who had held him throughout the whole ordeal. He could see the elves, too, in the corner of his vision. They were unmoving, seemingly frozen, their chanting silenced. Harry’s large green eyes were smiling down at him, dancing with happiness and shining with unshed tears. Slowly Draco became aware the panic was receding.

“It’s okay, Draco, it’s all over now,” Harry whispered tenderly, placing a gentle kiss on Draco’s brow and brushing back his hair as if trying to brush away any residual pain that Draco might be feeling.

The elves were still holding Draco’s hands tightly in their own small hands and he dared to look at them now. There were three of them… only three? Draco had been sure there were a dozen or more. Dobby was there, smiling with tears streaming down his cheeks. There was an old elf, also, who was darker than Dobby and heavily wrinkled. And lastly, there was the third elf, a female, who didn’t seem able to meet his gaze.

Draco returned his own gaze to Harry again. The burning sensation had disappeared as had the pain, leaving just the aftermath of sensation in his chest, just a small tingling… although even that seemed to be fading. The sharp pain in his throat had eased as well, as if everything had been soothed away, leaving him with only a gentle, almost distant memory of his ordeal. 

“It’s over now, baby,” Harry said again. “Are you all right?” 

Draco nodded and Harry smiled – it was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

“They did it!” Harry was laughing, sparkling with happiness. “You fucking did it!” he addressed to the elves. “You bloody beauties!”

The elves were laughing too, dancing about on the bed and hugging each other. The hatred and mistrust of the elves, that had risen when Draco felt the pain from their ritual, subsided somewhat as they made no further move to hurt him.

Draco was confused. Everyone seemed so joyful and happy, yet he didn’t feel any different. Harry was looking at him intensely, those deep green eyes full of joy and hope. Dare he try and speak? Draco didn’t want Harry to be disappointed if it didn’t work. He didn’t want the light of happiness that had suffused Harry to die out, but Harry seemed to waiting for him to try, so he opened his mouth, expecting a croak to emerge, expecting nothing…

“Harry?” he croaked. He was trembling and uncertain, the word had come out croaky and hoarse… but he had _spoken_ it. “Harry!”

Harry howled with delight. “We did it!” he shouted. “We fucking did it!”

And then Draco was melting under the fierce heat of a passionate, loving kiss.

*****************


	10. Nine - A step or two forwards

Chapter 9 – A Step Or Two Forwards

 

For several beats of Draco’s astonished heart the kiss he was sharing with Harry - the precious, wonderful kiss - continued. He was in a state of total bliss, his toes curled under him as his hands came up to bury themselves in Harry’s soft, silken hair. He wanted it to go on forever and ever. Instead, he felt Harry violently pulling away, ripping himself from Draco’s arms and lips, throwing himself from the bed.

“Oh fuck, Draco. Oh shit! I am so fucking sorry!”

Somehow Harry had managed to get himself out of Draco’s embrace and right across the room. He was pressed against the wall, arms spread wide as though he was trying to get as much space between them as possible. He was pale and shaking, his eyes wide with what looked like terror, his chest heaving.

Draco sat in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows and confused looking house-elves. He was feeling somewhat confused himself.

_”Harry, what’s wrong? "_

“I shouldn’t have… I forced myself on you… what kind of arsehole am I?”

Draco couldn’t imagine what Harry was talking about. He hadn’t forced himself on Draco. Harry’s touch was perfection… a balm for Draco’s soul. Draco thought he probably needed Harry’s touch to live, so wonderful, so perfect was it.

Draco felt edgy in crowds, which meant whenever he was around more than three people at any one time. He still felt invisible hands on him at times, hands that he couldn’t control or stop – but never when Harry was there, never when Harry held him. There were a lot of people Draco didn’t think he could bear to have touch him. In fact, with most people he had to steel himself just to allow them to get within two feet of him. The few exceptions included Hermione and Severus and of course Fleur. When they touched him, without requiring anything from him, they made him feel less dirty, less used. The fact that they were willing to hold him made Draco feel human again. Although he was still a little wary around Severus, and needed either Harry or Hermione to be present also, his godfather’s acceptance of him meant the world, while Hermione was able to calm and sooth him with gentle caresses. And Fleur, why Fleur, felt like kin.

But Harry? Harry’s touches, Harry’s hugs were Draco’s link to sanity. Ever since the boy hero had carried Draco away from the hellish place he had spent so many bitter months, Draco had felt like a baby bird which had imprinted Harry on his soul; he just could not be without Harry now. Harry’s hands were gentle and caring, Harry’s skin was warm and silky, Harry’s touch was like oxygen to Draco, wonderful beyond imagination. He needed it.

“You’ve had such a shitty time,” cried Harry, his voice tinged with disbelief and a touch of horror. He had slumped against the wall now and his trembling hands were raking desperately through his hair. “All those men forcing themselves upon you and now I’m just as bad. How could I do that to you?”

Draco wondered for a moment what he was talking about and then he had a revelation.

_”Are you talking about the kiss?”_

Harry didn’t answer him. He hung his head instead and looked so wretched, so sorry for himself that Draco’s heart missed a beat.

“Oh, Harry!” he rasped, his voiced sounded like a squeaky gate that needed oiling. “Harry, I loved your kiss.”

Harry looked up at him in surprise, his expression hopeful.

“You liked it?”

Draco smiled and nodded.

“It was my first kiss and it was wonderful,” he croaked.

And then, because his voice still felt so strange, he went back to their familiar method of communication.

_“The Death Eater’s didn’t kiss me. They weren’t interested in my pleasure, how I felt. They just wanted to fuck me. Don’t apologise for caring, Harry. For treating me like a human.”_

Harry’s eyes looked suspiciously moist. He ran his arm across his face in an attempt to clear his vision and then buried his fingers again in that thick unruly mop of hair Draco had been playing with only moments before. Draco’s fingers tingled and ached to slap Harry’s hand away. He wanted to be doing that! Playing with Harry’s hair was Draco’s job.

He opened his arms then, as wide as he could, silently inviting Harry to return to him. Harry didn’t move at once although he eyed Draco’s arms with something that looked like longing. He looked so vulnerable, so uncertain. “I didn’t hurt you?”

_“Harry, I am not made of glass. One kiss, one glorious kiss will not break me. I loved it.”_

Finally, after an additional pause of several seconds (which seemed like hours to Draco), Harry peeled himself away from the wall and slowly, with apparent trepidation, returned to the bed. Draco was surprised to notice the elves had disappeared, melted away like frost in spring sunshine. Although he was marginally less afraid of them now, he was still glad they were gone.

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” Harry whispered, moving to sit beside him again. 

Draco reached over and gently took Harry’s hand in his own.

_“You couldn’t hurt me, Harry. You have never hurt anyone in your entire life."_

Draco could only wonder what he had said when Harry’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t shed them, though, instead the shivering intensified and he seemed to shrink as a dry, impotent sob was wrenched from him.

Gently Draco pulled Harry’s head down so that it was cradled in his lap. Then Harry, who had been rigid and resisting just seconds before, seemed to melt into Draco’s embrace.

“I have hurt people!” Harry’s whisper was filled with sorrow. “Lots of people. I am not safe to be around. I’ll only end up hurting you, too.”

“Oh, Harry!” Draco rasped, continuing to stroke Harry’s hair, his cheek, and any part of him he could reach. “Who do you think you have hurt? Because you are wrong, surely you are.”

“So many…” Harry’s voice was almost not there at all, so soft and haunted were his words. “So many people dead… all… my… fault…”

Draco wanted to say something but Harry was still talking, “Cedric died… my fault, it should have been me; and then the Dursleys… because I just left and I should have protected them. And…..” Harry was sobbing quietly, his voice muffled with his face buried in Draco’s lap. He was choking a name, one that perhaps caused him the most guilt of all.

“S-s-sirius! Oh God! Oh God! Sirius.”

“Sirius Black?” Draco was confused. “You are upset about Sirius Black’s death?”

He could understand Harry being upset about the Hufflepuff boy. Merlin, they had all been upset about that. He could even understand about the deaths of those Muggle relatives Harry had told him about only a couple of days ago, well almost understand (they were family, after all). But why in wizardom was he upset about the death of one of Draco’s cousins, a cousin that Draco himself didn’t even know?

“M-m-y… g-g-godfather,” Harry wept.

Draco realised there were still a lot of things he did not know about Harry, but now was not the time for such discussions.

_“Harry, oh my Harry,”_ Draco was petting him, brushing the damp hair from Harry’s eyes. Harry’s glasses were long gone. Draco didn’t remember Harry taking them off, but he must have done at some point because they were nowhere in evidence.

“Wasn’t you,” Draco murmured. “It wasn’t you, my darling man, never you."

_"The Dark Lord, did it, he killed those people, not you.”_ He leaned over and placed a tender kiss on Harry’s forehead. Harry’s breath hitched. He looked up at his mate and Draco gasped. The naked grief and terror in those viridian eyes was almost palpable.

_“And he is dead now, you killed him. He can’t hurt anyone ever again._

“Wasn’t you!” Draco used his newly repaired, raspy voice to emphasise the point. 

Harry’s eyes closed. His breathing was juddery and he was still shivering, his skin clammy to the touch. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry drawing him into a closer embrace. They sat this way for quite some time, Harry content to be held in Draco’s arms. Eventually, as Draco continued to gently card his hair, the emotionally distraught boy gradually began to relax. The frown that had creased his forehead disappeared and his breathing slowed and deepened. 

It was quite warm in their bedroom and Harry’s cheeks became slightly flushed. His mouth opened and his delicious tongue darted out to moisten dry, pink lips. Draco groaned knowing he couldn’t resist any longer – he needed to taste them again. They had felt so wonderful against his own lips when he had been kissing Harry earlier. Gently he eased Harry’s head from his lap and onto one of the pillows that surrounded them.

Harry groaned and opened his eyes. The adorable little frown line that had been so prominent a short while ago returned to its place between Harry’s brows, but Draco didn’t think it would be there for long. He leaned over and began to gently place tiny kisses on Harry’s mouth.

“Oh!” Harry managed, before even that little word was smothered in kisses.

Draco couldn’t seem to stop himself. Harry tasted delicious and as Draco continued kissing him, Harry made delectable little noises, whimpers and tiny mewls. Draco’s toes were curling again and he was breathing harder, too. Harry arched up towards Draco’s body. He brought his hands up but couldn’t seem to bring himself to touch Draco; instead, his hands were raised as if in supplication, his fingers extended, his palms open. Draco relished the feeling of strength that swept over him, revelling in the fact that he was the one making Harry feel like this. Draco’s hands were fluttering all over Harry’s chest, torso, hair, and face – petting, stroking, _touching._

When the pleasure engendered by all the kissing and touching reached a fever pitch Harry grabbed Draco’s hands and gently trapped them in his own. He pulled his mouth away.

“Wait, Draco,” he said. “Please wait.”

Draco recoiled, was Harry rejecting him? But as soon as he looked into Harry’s eyes his panic subsided. Those eyes, those dark, green eyes were burning into his own, searing right to the very core of him.

“Are you sure you want this? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Draco. Because _you_ have to be the one who decides. You are in charge, Draco.”

Draco gasped.

“W…what do you mean?”

“I mean that you decide what happens, you take charge. It’s your choice how far we go and what we do. Besides… ummm… I… I… don’t know very much. I have… never, um, never… really… well… I have only ever once… and… er… you know more… er…”

Harry was blushing and Draco felt overwhelmed with tenderness. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing… was Harry saying he was innocent? That he was practically a virgin? And Harry wanted Draco to be in charge, what did that mean? 

Suddenly the feeling of tenderness chilled and Draco froze in mid thought. He felt cold as ice – _‘you know more’ !_ Did Harry think Draco was sexually skilled; did he want Draco to do things to him, to arouse him; did he think Draco was a whore?

The life, the hope that had seemed to be filling him only moments ago vanished in an instant leaving Draco feeling empty. He was a whore, wasn’t he?

“You think that I am a slut, don’t you, Harry?” Draco said. He tried desperately to keep his voice steady and under control, but he could hear the tremor that he couldn’t quite contain.

“What!” Harry cried sitting up, a look of total shock on his face. “No, Draco! No!” The shock was changing to horror. It echoed his feelings which washed over Draco in waves. “Oh God! Oh God! I didn’t mean that, I swear I didn’t. I was going to say ‘you know more about how you feel.’ That’s all. I didn’t think… I would _never_ think that! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I am so fucking stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” 

Harry was bashing his fist against his head in time with his words. The horror had turned to despair.

Draco reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand. “Stop it!”

Harry looked at his hand and then at Draco. 

“I am so fucking useless at this!” Harry went on. “I didn’t mean that at all. I didn’t want to treat you like a whore or a slut; you aren’t one, you’re not! You were abused, Draco, so badly abused and I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t know what to do so I asked Kingsley and he said that I should let you lead… you know, be in charge. I’m just so damn scared I might hurt you. I am such a wanker sometimes and… what if I did something and… I don’t know… made you have a flashback or something…"

Harry looked at their clasped hands and blurted out, “I just don’t know what to do!”

Draco was astonished. Did Harry really think he might hurt Draco? As he studied Harry, he realised it was true, Harry honestly thought he might hurt Draco – Harry who had rescued him and looked after him. And then Harry said something that made Draco’s heart skip a beat.

“I love you so much, Draco.”

There was anguish in Harry’s eyes and a vulnerability that Draco could sense by the way Harry was biting his bottom lip, worrying it really. It made Draco want to enfold Harry in his arms and kiss away the fears he could sense in the other man. 

“You love me?” he whispered.

Harry didn’t speak again, he just nodded and looked away. 

Draco couldn’t breathe. Less than a week ago he had been a slave, a sex slave, so badly abused he felt he had not lived but merely existed. Left without hope, he had wanted to die. And then suddenly there was Harry, who had taken him away from that awful place, had looked after him, bought him clothes, treated him as if he were human, as if he were an equal. Merlin, he treated Draco as if he were precious… and now he _loved_ him? How could that be true?

But it was true… Draco could feel it… he could feel Harry’s sincerity, he could feel his love.

“It’s okay, Draco. You don’t have to love me back,” Harry said reassuringly. “I mean I would understand if you couldn’t… er… love me… I mean…”

Harry sounded so fragile.

_“Harry, shush.”_ Draco reached over and gently stroked Harry’s hair. _“I don’t know what I have done to deserve you.”_

Harry lifted his head and looked at Draco again and Draco cupped his cheek. That little frown was back creasing Harry’s forehead, his expression so open and so full of need.

“Oh Harry, my Harry, don’t you know already? I love you, too.” 

And now there was no holding Draco back. Harry had told him to do what he wished, given him full permission, and, incredible as it seemed, told Draco that he loved him. Draco was intoxicated with the scent and feel of his personal saviour. He was drunk on Harry. He would suffer an agony of loss if he tried to stop himself now.

He took Harry’s face in both his hands and kissed him. Draco put everything he had into that kiss, all of his gratitude, his joy, his hope, and most of all, his overwhelming love.

Harry yielded with a groan of pure pleasure. He sank back against the pillows as Draco plundered his mouth and followed him down onto the bed. He was on top of Harry and it felt wonderful, fantastic. At that moment Draco knew he really, _really_ wanted the young man beneath him. No more waiting. 

Draco had been so hurt, so used in his role with Voldemort that he had despaired. But this, this was so different, so gloriously different, from anything he had ever known before. He wanted Harry with such a rapturous hunger that he was overwhelmed. He wanted touch him, stroke him, taste him. He wanted Harry to keep making those delicious little noises, the ones that Draco made him make.

The rapes were not like this, had never been like this. He had been held down, forced to do unspeakable things, and it had been truly horrific. But this was wonderful, glorious, heavenly, it was a totally new experience and a second chance at living. It felt as if he were being cleansed and all the bad things were washing away. From this moment on he and Harry would be making new and wonderful memories – together. Harry was his mate. He knew now without a shadow of a doubt that they were meant to be joined like this. He could feel Harry, his every emotion; he was totally and utterly in tune with him right now, in tune with his lover.

_His lover._

He was unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, running his hands over Harry’s firm smooth chest. He brushed Harry’s nipples with his fingers, teasing them, caressing them.

And Harry was whimpering, begging with need. He was mewling again, writhing. Draco had straddled Harry’s hips and he could feel the other man’s cock harden beneath him. For a brief instant he wondered if he should be worried by Harry’s arousal after all he’d been through, but it was more shadow than thought and vanished before it had time to solidify. He knew to the depths of his soul he was completely safe, that Harry would never harm him, not like _they_ had.

He wasn’t aroused, not like Harry was. But he was trembling with need just the same, the need to be with Harry, to touch him, make love to him. Making love with Harry would be like coming home. Draco knew that day would likely come, but perhaps not just yet.

Draco opened Harry’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, he unbuttoned Harry’s trousers and shoved them down as far as he could manage. Harry was laid out beneath him, like a feast. He was begging Draco, whispering his name and it sounded like poetry on Harry’s lips. Draco could feel Harry’s need, his passion. Harry’s emotions were washing over him and Draco felt like they were connected, joined together. He still wasn’t aroused, but he was overwhelmed with pleasure and a loving desire to touch, stroke, and caress the man beneath him.

He wanted to touch Harry’s cock. He wasn’t ready for anything else yet, but now he knew that one day he might be, maybe one day soon, but not yet. Right now he wanted to hold Harry. Harry told him he could do whatever he wanted and what he wanted was to give Harry the best orgasm of his life so far.

He moved so he was beside Harry rather than on top of him and intensified his kissing, claiming Harry’s mouth as he reached down and took Harry’s cock in his hand.

Harry groaned and Draco felt another rush of pleasure wash over him. Harry’s cock was warm and pleasantly weighty. It felt wonderful. It wasn’t scary at all, holding his lover like this. He had touched plenty of cocks but this was Harry, his Harry and it wasn’t threatening at all.

Draco didn’t need to look to see what he was doing, he was working on instinct. He carefully rolled back Harry’s foreskin and began to rub his thumb gently over the tip of Harry’s penis, massaging the pre-come that was oozing out into the soft, silky skin. Harry was whimpering, needy and wanting.

Draco could not suppress the large smirk which threatened to split his face apart, even as he continued the kisses, pushing his tongue into Harry’s pliant mouth, exploring the warm wetness within. Harry moaned. Draco had never before in his life felt so powerful, so in control. He was doing this to Harry, reducing him to a primal state, wild with desire. 

Gently, carefully because he had no lubricant and he did not want to hurt Harry he moved his hand up the shaft and wrapped his fingers along the long slim length. 

Harry was babbling incoherently, completely beyond rational thought. Draco’s smile widened wickedly.

“Do you want to come for me, my Harry?” he whispered huskily into Harry’s ear.

“Guhmph!”

Draco chuckled.

“Come then, Harry.”

And Harry did, yelling, “Oh my God… Draco!”

Harry arched upwards, canting his hips to be closer to Draco’s hand. Draco felt Harry’s balls tighten as he brushed a finger across them and then hot come was spraying all over his hand and Harry’s groin and legs; Harry was screaming and Draco was filled with a sense of completion unlike anything he had ever felt before.

**************

Several hours later Harry woke to find his lover draped across him with complete abandon and a very self satisfied smile on his handsome face. Still sound asleep, Harry thought Draco looked so innocent and so very beautiful lying with his head on Harry’s chest. He rubbed his cheek against Draco’s pale, silky hair.

It had never been like this with Seamus. It had been nice, in fact it had been lovely. Seamus had been really sweet and done his best to make Harry’s first time memorable. But it was nothing compared to the intensity of feeling and emotion Draco had instilled in him and Harry was pretty sure that no-one but Draco ever would.

“I’ll have to be so careful with you, my love,” he whispered. “I am so fucking insensitive, such a clot.” 

Harry blushed at the stupid things he had said earlier. Draco must think he was a total prat! But no, Draco didn’t think that at all. Harry could still hear so many of his thoughts, feel what Draco felt, at least some of the time. Draco seemed to think that Harry was wonderful, which made Harry’s blush deepen. Draco loved him and he loved Draco. They had declared their love for each other and Harry was in no doubt that it was real. With this to bind them, he was sure they could surmount any obstacle the future could hold. What a wonderful thought to start this day with.

It had been totally awful the previous afternoon, having to talk to Kingsley, but Harry was so glad that he had done so. Kingsley’s advice had been brilliant and, as it turned out, spot on. For the last four days Harry’s head had been filled with thoughts of Draco: Draco trembling in Harry’s arms; Draco’s damp tear-filled lashes brushing against Harry’s neck, like butterfly kisses; Draco in that purple robe that Madam Malkin had given him, his hair and eyes hidden in deep velvety folds with just his mouth and chin visible, pale porcelain skin, curved moist lips of dusky rose. Harry had wanted to remove the robe and unwrap Draco like the precious gift he was and reveal the delicate beauty beneath the rich, royal wrapping.

He had never had so many showers in all his life as he had managed in the last few days. He had tried so hard to keep his arousal a secret from Draco. He had tried desperately to clamp down on the bond whenever he sought relief, not wanting to upset Draco. It had been harder since Fleur’s visit, it would be impossible now.

But maybe now he wouldn’t have to? Draco’s emotions had flooded Harry when they made love, Draco had been engulfed in pleasure too. It hadn’t been an ordeal for him as Harry feared it might be.

“O Merlin! They had made love, hadn’t they? Oh, perhaps not in the strictly technical sense, but definitely in the broader romantic sense. They had kissed and held each other and Draco had touched him all over so deliciously and it had been glorious! They hadn’t done very much yet, to be sure. Draco wasn’t ready for much more right now, he might never be. He already seemed to be healing faster than Harry would have thought possible, maybe because of the bond. 

Whatever happened was alright with Harry. He would wait and if it never happened, well, he would not love Draco any less. A huge smile creased Harry’s face, he could not suppress it. He shivered at the thought of Draco’s hand _on his cock._ It had been absolutely fucking fantastic! So fucking good. 

But even better was how Draco had felt throughout the whole thing. Draco had been in ecstasy. He had been so bloody happy and that thrilled Harry beyond words. It was as if their emotions had melded – Kingsley had said they might. The ebb and flow of their emotions had been so entwined at one point that Harry could not distinguish what were his feelings and what were Draco’s, and that had felt absolutely wonderful, too.

It was true, Draco hadn’t come; he hadn’t even been hard and Harry felt more than a pang of sorrow about that. Kingsley had warned him that might happen. In fact he had said it was more than likely Draco would not be able to achieve an erection or tolerate intimate touches for a very long time. At least, if he had been a normal rape victim that would almost certainly be the case.

But he wasn’t normal, was he? He was this creature known as a concubine, and he and Harry shared a kind of mating bond, which even Kingsley admitted he knew very little about. He knew a bit about Veela, he’d said, but real knowledge regarding concubines had for centuries been shrouded in myths and lies. All anybody really knew was that concubines and Veela were related but were not exactly the same, that concubines could change into anything pleasing to their masters, and that, when bonded to their life mate, each would be marked by a symbol on the wrist – as Draco and Harry had both experienced. 

The two lovers would need to discover almost everything else by themselves – not that that wouldn’t be fun if today was anything to go by, Harry thought with another smirk. But it did mean that advice and support would be limited. They’d have to pick it up as they went along. Maybe the book Fleur had given Draco would be of some help? Not that Harry would look at it; it was Draco’s and, besides, he didn’t think that he could even if he wanted to. It looked as though it was written in Chinese script, though Draco didn’t seem to be having any problems with it. He had read it avidly enough in bed the night before.

He placed a kiss on Draco’s head and tightened his arm around the sleeping man’s shoulder. Before now Draco had always curled timidly against Harry when they had cuddled, not asking for more than Harry was offering in the way of comfort, as though afraid of being rebuffed. But now Draco was sprawled over Harry with abandonment, almost possessive in his embrace. It would seem he was getting better, the healing process underway. Harry was confident that one day soon he would be able to touch Draco, caress his mate in the way Draco had already done for him.

“Together, my love. We will learn what you need together.” Harry whispered against the soft, velvet skin of Draco’s cheek. “You’ll get to know the joys of being made love to again, I promise.” 

Kingsley’s advice had worked so far, letting Draco take the lead; in fact, it had worked beyond Harry’s wildest dreams. He was not going to rest until Draco was whole again; but he knew it would take time and was more than willing to wait. He would not pressure Draco for more than he was willing to give, however wonderful their snogging session had just been. 

“Mmmm?” Draco murmured in his new husky voice. He opened sleepy, silver eyes and stared up at Harry, looking all bleary-eyed and adorable with a pick pattern imprinted on his cheek from where he had fallen asleep against Harry’s shirt. 

Harry wanted to kiss him again.

Draco smiled, sensuous, catlike. “Well, go on then!” he purred. 

At Hogwarts, Draco had always sounded imperious. Harry had always thought his slightly high-pitched, nasal voice, with its cut-glass accent, had suited him. But, Oh Merlin, this new voice! Harry didn’t know how long it would last, whether it was permanent or whether it would gradually go back to the way it had been. All he knew for sure was this new timbre was just so sexy. Draco sounded like he had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk far too many whiskies; he sounded sultry and husky and absolutely wonderful, to Harry’s ears anyway. Harry didn’t really care though, just hearing him speak again was more than enough. Hermione would be so surprised, and Snape, what would Snape say? Harry’s grin turned wicked as he thought of the ex-potion master’s response.

“Go on with what?” Harry grinned. “What should I do?”

“Kiss me; you were thinking about kissing me.”

Harry groaned theatrically and continued in a fair imitation of Snape, “Oh, all right then, if I must!”

And then, without further ado, he began to fervently kiss his lover once more.

************

It was late morning and Harry was making breakfast, or rather brunch with help from Kreacher. A noise caused them to both look up and they could see Draco framed in the kitchen doorway. The old elf quickly disappeared with an audible crack. Harry suspected that, despite the positive events of earlier in the morning, Draco would still be nervous around the house elves for some time to come. Amazingly enough, the little creatures were being surprisingly sensitive about the situation – even Dobby, who Harry suspected did not have a sensitive bone in his body. 

He was very tired and ravenously hungry. They had spent hours last night talking, survived the return of Draco’s voice, and spent hours this morning exploring each other’s bodies, tenderly touching, stroking, caressing. Harry’s hands had only ventured where Draco had put them and no further. But they itched to do more. To pinch those pink nipples, to stroke that beautiful cock to hardness just as Draco had with him. “But not yet,” he told himself, “not yet.”

He put two steaming cups of tea on the table next to the scrambled eggs and then sat down beside Draco. “Kingsley sent us a parcel of stuff. I thought we’d open it together.”

“Okay,” Draco said in his new husky voice, a sweet secretive smile on his lips. Harry wondered why he was smiling.

“Why are you smiling, Draco?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said softly, “’cause I’m alive and have my voice back, ’cause I love your scrambled eggs, ’cause this morning was amazing, ’cause you always include me in things and I don’t think that’s going to change, and ’cause you said you love me too and I am just now seeing what that means, how incredibly wonderful that is.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and then he grinned. He didn’t think that Draco had said as much as this since he got his voice back and he sounded so happy. He leaned over and kissed Draco soundly on the lips.

The parcel was full of brochures about Canada.

“Canada?” Draco said. “Why Canada?”

“That’s where Kingsley’s brother lives, in… umm… a city called Vancouver, I think.”

Harry was studying the little maps on the brochures and suddenly realised just how far away Vancouver was.

“Heck!” he expostulated. “We can’t go there! It’s the other side of the world! We’d be leaving everything behind, everything and everyone we know.”

“We’d have each other?” Draco said softly, smiling up at Harry and looking rather tentative, as if he wasn’t sure that he should have spoken.

He looked so adorable that Harry kissed him again.

“Somebody looks happy this morning,” Hermione groaned, walking stiffly into the kitchen. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing a rather worn red bathrobe that Harry seemed to remember had belonged to Ron. It was far too big for her; the sleeves were rolled up at least three times and the belt was tied two times around her waist. Her dark curls tumbled in disarray about her shoulders, completely untamed. She looked uncomfortable and completely rumpled; and Hermione never looked like that, she was always beautifully turned out.

“We _are_ happy,” Draco grinned sympathetically, “but you don’t look so well, Hermione.”

It was Hermione’s turn to be astonished. She had been in the process of sitting down when Draco spoke and she missed the chair completely and landed on the floor with a loud, and probably painful, thump. They both rushed around the table to help her up again.

“Are you all right?” asked Harry with concern but obviously having a hard time keeping a hint of amusement from showing. 

“I’m sorry I gave you such a surprise,” Draco whispered contritely while at the same time sending a swift glare in Harry’s direction. He was gently dusting her down as he helped her to her feet.

This time Hermione checked the position of the chair before she sat on it.

“What? How? When?” she stuttered.

Harry grinned answering, “The house-elves, around sunrise this morning. It was Kreacher’s idea. He knew a spell they could try and it worked.”

“Were you all right with the elves, Draco,” Hermione asked peering worriedly at him, and when Draco nodded, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hermione, you weren’t really in a fit state to be taking part in healing rituals!” Harry said with a slight smirk.

Hermione humphed. 

“But Draco can speak!” Hermione wailed. “Do it again!” she pleaded, turning to peer at him as if he were an interesting book she was about to devour.

Draco smiled shyly.

“What shall I say?” he asked.

“Oh, Draco!” Hermione squealed and then winced and rubbed her head. She was obviously hurting a little.

“Is your head sore?” inquired Draco solicitously.

Now it was Hermione’s turn to look contrite.

“I did rather over indulge, didn’t I?” she groaned again softly. “Oh, Draco, I am so glad that you can speak.” With tears streaming down her face Hermione flung herself into Draco’s arms and buried her face in his shoulder. A bit startled but ever the gentleman, Draco wrapped his arms around her and uttered soothing sounds while casting imploring looks at Harry.

“Don’t cry, Hermione,” Draco murmured but Hermione sobbed all the harder. In the end both Harry and Draco had to lead her over to the large kitchen table and sit her down. Harry found a tissue and Draco held her hand.

“Sorry. I’m… sorry,” Hermione stammered through her tears. “I’m… just happy… for you… Draco. Now we can… talk to each other. And my head hurts!” She was sobbing in earnest now. Harry and Draco exchanged a glance and Draco made a face as if to say _‘what the heck are we going to do now ’._

“Er… would you like a coffee, Hermione?” Harry suggested uncertainly while gently patting her back.

Hermione hiccupped, nodded and wiped her eyes.

Draco rummaged in the kitchen drawer where Severus had put the potions he’d made to aid in Draco’s recovery. 

“I think I have a pain potion in here somewhere. I’m sorry I don’t have a hangover potion. I just wish I had some ginger. That would be enough to improve it considerably, then you’d really feel better.” His voice still had that husky timbre, but he seemed to be able to speak for longer periods as the morning wore on. He was like a child with a new toy, Harry thought fondly.

“I have ginger,” offered Harry, “organic ginger root.”

“Since when have you been making your own potions? You hate potions,” scoffed Draco looking amazed.

Harry grinned. “Not for potion making, you prat! For when I am cooking Chinese food or Thai curries or something. It adds a lot of flavour.”

Draco started to giggle. “Harry, you are so gay!” 

Just for a second Harry felt a bit wounded. But Draco was laughing and he hadn’t really laughed since brought to Grimmauld Place. His giggles were delicious and then Hermione was laughing and Harry found he couldn’t help but join in the laughter too.

“How does that make me gay?” he chuckled.

Draco shrugged, suddenly looking worried as if Harry might get angry with him. _“I don’t really think it does. It just sounded so strange for a minute. I guess I just feel really giddy and silly today. Sorry.”_ He bit his lip and wouldn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes. 

“Draco, it’s all right for you to tease me. It’s allowed,” Harry said in a soft voice. He squeezed Draco’s shoulder gently. “I’m not surprised you feel a bit silly; I feel a bit like that myself. Maybe I deserve a bit of teasing, huh?”

“What did Draco say?” Hermione asked curiously. She had obviously seen the worried expression in his eyes, because it was echoed in her own. 

“Nothing much, he was just teasing me,” Harry said, giving Draco a comforting hug. Hermione smiled at them both and then she gently slapped Draco on the arm.

“No leaving me out of the conversation, you.” Then she frowned. “Is your throat a bit sore?” 

Draco nodded. “A little bit.”

“We’ll have to get Snape to have a look when he gets here,” Harry said. “I’ll have to clean up the kitchen though, ’cause he’ll throw one of his hissy fits if the table isn’t scrubbed within an inch of its life. But I think I’ll make some coffee first, do you want it black, Hermione?”

As the morning wore on Harry felt suffused by a sense of well being. Draco heated a pain potion in a milk pan and added some comfrey and ginger and fed the concoction to Hermione, who pronounced it successful. Harry made toast, coffee and more scrambled egg after which they all perused the brochures Kingsley had sent. These were filled with interesting sounding places such as Calgary, Langley and Maple Ridge. Finally, Draco decided he would go to the library and get the magical atlas he had spotted on one of the shelves so that they could check out where these places were.

Harry watched him leave the room with a smile of contentment.

“He is getting better, isn’t he?” said Hermione, although her tone made it more a statement than a question. “Who would have thought it when we found him. I think he must be a lot stronger than we ever thought he was. I don’t think I could have gone through what he has and be as together as he seems to be.”

“It’s fragile though,” Harry sighed deeply, “very fragile. I know he trusts me but what I don’t know is how deep that trust goes. He seems all right here, and I think it’s because he’s beginning to believe that he really is safe with us. But, Hermione, there are so many people who want to hurt him. I think Kingsley is right, we have to leave. Draco is making such good progress. But he’s not strong enough yet to face what’s going on in our world right now. However, I don’t know about going this far though.” He held up a brochure which contained pictures of mountains and lakes and blue, blue skies.

“Why not?” Hermione asked. “What do you have to keep you here, Harry? Your friends could come and see you and you could always come back if you needed to. I think it would do you both a world of good.” She smirked a little at her last comment.

“But what about Draco’s family?”

Hermione humphed. “His parents you mean? The very parents who gave him to Voldemort to use as a sex slave?”

Harry blushed. “Okay, maybe not,” he agreed. “I’d miss you, though.”

Hermione smiled and then held up one of the brochures she had been looking at. It depicted a Canadian College called the Fort Langley Institute. 

“This place looks interesting,” she mused with a touch of excitement in her voice. “I might just come with you.”

Harry smiled.

“That would be wonderful, Hermione.”

Draco re-entered the room just as the floo flared. He dropped the large leather book he had been holding and rushed into Harry’s arms.

Harry and Hermione shared a look: maybe not that healed yet, it said. 

The floo was restricted, whether Draco remembered that or not, and there were not that many people who could have flooed in without warning. As it happened, it was Ron who had arrived.

“Morning,” he greeted everyone cheerfully as he stepped out of the flames and brushed himself down. “Is there any coffee left? Mum’s de-gnoming the garden again today, so I thought I’d come and see how you were doing.” He began walking over to the table to join them.

By the time Draco reached Harry’s arms he was trembling violently; however, as soon as he saw the tall redhead his trembling began to ease a bit. He still kept his head buried in Harry’s shoulder, though.

“How’s Malfoy doing?” Ron asked.

Draco stiffened. Ron had never yet directed a question at him. He spoke about Draco as if he were not there and couldn’t seem to bring himself to look at the blond man.

“He’s quite fragile isn’t he? Does he still cry all the time?” 

Harry felt somewhat stunned at Ron’s insensitivity and could not help but contrast the way Ron treated Draco – as if he were totally stupid, little more than some sort of pet – and the way that Hermione treated Draco, the way he deserved to be treated.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Ron?” Hermione said in a cold voice that brooked no argument. “He isn’t an animal you know.”

Ron flushed and then scowled. “I can’t speak to him, he’s hiding. I’m not having a conversation with the back of someone’s head. Besides he can’t speak anyway so what would be the point?”

Harry could feel Draco’s heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He felt Draco’s fist grip his t-shirt and tried to squelch his own rising anger at his friend. Then the blond man took a deep breath and turned around.

“Morning, Weasley,” he said evenly.

Ron’s jaw dropped 

“It... he... you spoke!”

“Yes, I did. I seem to have had my speech restored,” Draco continued, seemingly unflustered by Ron’s reaction, although Harry could still feel him trembling slightly as he answered Ron’s question.

“Merlin’s fucking balls!” gasped Ron. He had nearly reached the table, but he had backed away a few steps when Draco spoke. He looked completely and utterly flummoxed. “But, when, how…ow!” Ron stumbled over something, it was the book Draco had dropped upon Ron’s arrival, and fell over backwards, hitting the stone floor with quite a thump, very reminiscent of Hermione’s recent mishap with the chair. 

For a second the room was completely still.

Then Hermione dissolved into giggles and so did Draco and then Harry was laughing, too.

“Hey, you fuckers,” Ron whined into all the hilarity, “isn’t someone gonna help me up?”

After Ron’s question there seemed to be no holding them back. Draco was giggling madly, such a free and happy sound. Hermione was clutching her sides, tears streaming down her face as she rocked with laughter. And Harry was laughing also, not as freely as the other two, mainly because he was torn between laughing with his friends and simply enjoying their laughter. They had a long way to go, he knew – maybe even literally, if they did decide to move to Canada for a while – but Harry realised with a frisson of surprise that, for the first time since he could remember, he was happy. He truly was and it felt wonderful.

“Harry, do you know there’s a load of cobwebs on your ceiling over the fridge?” observed Ron from his position on the floor, interrupting Harry’s thoughts and causing Harry to laugh harder and more freely. Somehow the fact that Ron was commenting on his lack of housekeeping skills struck him as the funniest thing he had heard in a long, long time.

Ron Weasley pushed himself up so that his head was propped in one hand and watched the three friends with a very puzzled expression on his face. 

“I don’t understand,” he said grumpily. “What the fuck is so bloody funny?”

*******************


	11. Ten - A step or two more

Hi all *waves* Well here it is at last. The next chapter of Concubine. The whole story has undergone an overhaul and it's been so long since I updated, you might want to give it a quick re-read. Parts of it have been fairly substantially rewritten and it's been thoroughly edited and tidied up but it hasn't change very much other than that. 

I couldn't have done this without the help of my wonderful beta and friend, Cyndie. She has been there, every step of the way. Chapter eleven should be up in about 2-3 weeks. *hugs* Lucie xxx

 

 

Ten - a step or two more

 

Harry was seated at the kitchen table again, this time with Ron. Hermione and Draco had just exited the kitchen after Draco had asked her if they could talk privately. It was becoming a bit of a habit he thought, sharing coffee and conversations at this table with everyone from Kingsley to Kreacher and all those in between.

It was an Irish Coffee this time, but he thought Ron needed it. He hadn’t seen the redhead look so woebegone for years. Yet despite his concern, Harry couldn’t help the fact that he was still a bit pissed off with his best friend. While it was true they had been friends for a long time, and Harry thought that friendship had to count for something, it was also true Ron had been completely insensitive and acted like a total arse.

“You do know that you have been a totally insensitive shit-bag, don’t you?” he said to Ron.

Ron didn’t look at him. He just stared at the table and nodded, but his ears went red.

“And if you keep treating Draco like that, then I am going to have to smack you.”

Ron sighed deeply. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled. “I know I’ve been a git, but it’s so hard, you know? I mean, it would be hard if it was anyone, cause I thought concubines were like…well you know what I thought they were like. But it’s _Malfoy_ , Harry. Malfoy, that you seem to have taken under your wing, Malfoy that…” he cast a quick look in Harry’s direction, “that you seem to have fallen for in such a big way. It’s like he’s bewitched you or something. 

“I’m in love with him if that is what you mean,” Harry said calmly. He expected a shocked and explosive reaction from Ron; it was after all the first time he had admitted this to anyone besides Draco – although he suspected that Hermione knew and Kingsley and maybe even Fleur and Bill. After running through his mental list he realised he was totally transparent, but he didn’t think Ron had guessed.

“Yeah, I know,” Ron replied, proving him wrong. “I think that’s why I found it so hard to accept him. I mean… he’s the ferret, Harry!” The look he gave Harry was plaintive this time. “You and me and Hermione, we always hated him, but now you love him and she’s acting like he’s her new best friend; and everything I say just makes me more of a wanker in all your eyes.” He jerked his head towards the door through which Draco and Hermione had exited only a short while before. “He hates my guts.”

“No he doesn’t, Ron!” Harry was shocked that Ron could even think such a thing, but the look on his oldest friend’s face was so vulnerable, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ron he was acting the total prat. “Draco’s been through hell, mate. There are certainly a number of people he should hate for the way they treated him, but he doesn’t seem to; he certainly doesn’t hate you.”

Ron’s face crumpled, he looked so upset. “I’m just not wanted here anymore, am I, Harry?”

“Not when you behave like a twat!” Harry retorted. He sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Look Ron, I know things weren’t good between us and Draco at school…”

“Weren’t good?” was the heated interruption. “We hated the little git at school!”

“Stop it! Just stop it, Ron, and listen to me. Draco – this new Draco – is nothing like he was then. You know the kind of shit he’s been through since then. How could he be the Malfoy we knew at school?

“Draco’s a part of me now. I dunno, we’re bonded or something. It’s like I can feel his thoughts. He’s so fragile, so broken and yet he is trying so hard. I know you’ve got a lot of past with Draco and it wasn’t good; but, can you do me a favour and let it go? Can’t you just… um… pretend you’ve just met him? Start again?”

“I’m trying here, mate,” Ron said in a small, whiny voice, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“No you’re not,” retorted Harry swiftly. “Or not hard enough. I know you, Ron. You’re a stubborn, opinionated git. But you’re also my best mate and I need you.”

Ron made a noise that Harry later told himself sounded like nothing so much as a constipated hippogriff. It was a kind of strangled snort. He initially thought Ron was choking.

“Ron?” he queried, trying to get the other man to look at him. Ron had thrown his arm over his head, hiding behind it, preventing Harry from seeing his face.

“Are you crying?”

Ron shook his head, but when Harry reached over and firmly pulled his friend’s arm away, Ron’s face was wet with tears.

“M’sorry,” he croaked, roughly. “I just don’t want to lose you and Hermione and yet I can’t seem to get it right.”

“Oh, mate!” Harry whispered. He put his hand at the nape of Ron’s neck and pulled his friend closer so Ron’s head was on his shoulder while the tall red-haired man sobbed.

Harry felt stunned. Ron never cried. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen his best friend shed a tear before; well, except for the other night when Draco had been hysterical and had summoned Harry to his room. He’d barely noticed Ron’s upset the last time as he’d been so pissed off with all the Weasleys at that point. But right now he was trying to make things right between him and Ron. So he just held him; rubbed circles on his best friend’s back, just like he did with Draco, desperately trying to comfort him. It had worked for his lover after all, but Ron continued to cry, albeit more quietly.

“Hey, mate,” Harry said, trying to hug the taller man, whilst Ron’s hands just hung ineffectually at his sides. “It’s gonna be alright, you great prick. Just stop being a git, okay?”

Ron nodded, but he didn’t stop crying. Not yet. “You are getting on my nerves!” Harry eventually admitted, finally giving in to his irritation. “You’ve really not got anything to be this upset about.”

“I know, m’sorry,” Ron said again. “I can’t seem to stop crying. Perhaps I’m turning into a girl? It’s just that I’ve been such an arse.”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna stop now, aren’t you?”

“M’gonna try,” Ron offered, wiping the back of his sleeve across his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you as friends, that’s all. You and Hermione, you’re just everything, you know?”

Harry did know, he didn’t know what he would have done without his friends over the last few years.

“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugged, not quite sure how to progress as a damp and somewhat distraught, Ron was really out of his experience. But at least Ron’s tears had stopped.

“Weasley, unhand my boyfriend. You’re making him soggy,” demanded Draco upon entering the room, looking almost like his old self. Only a certain shyness in his eyes and the fact that he was tightly holding onto Hermione’s hand betrayed the vulnerability beneath the surface.

Harry smiled, suddenly feeling warm and proud of his boyfriend; his smile widened… “his boyfriend”… that’s what Draco had called him. He felt like shouting with joy, but at the same time he was a little worried about the boy he had come to love so much in the past few days. Draco almost sounded like his old self... almost. His voice had a different timbre and his words lacked the bite they would once have had. Harry could feel how nervous he was, how frightened beneath this new-found bravado.

He closed his eyes, willing Ron to deal with Draco well, to not frighten him, to not snap, not be too scathing and cruel. Surely a forlorn hope, considering the way Ron had been behaving.

Ron’s forehead was still on Harry’s shoulder. The redhead stiffened.

“I…er…I have something in my eye…erm, Malfoy,” Ron said, a little shakily.

“You’ll have my fist in your eye if you don’t remove yourself from Harry’s shoulder,” drawled the one time Slytherin prince with an approximation of his once familiar sneer, only a tiny tremble on the last word betraying anything other than total calm..

Ron’s mouth curved into a half smile. “It’s nice to have you back, Ma… Draco. Did you have a good chat with H? Tell you what, guys. Shall I make us all a nice cup of tea?”

“Oh my God!” Hermione exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day that Ron Weasley made tea for Draco Malfoy. Actually,” she continued, “I never thought I’d see the day Ron Weasley would make tea for _anyone_.”

“It’d better not have poison in it, Weasley.” Draco’s voice sounded just a tiny bit stronger.

“Nah, just a little something to keep you on the loo all day.” Ron surreptitiously wiped the sleeve of his robe across his eyes, then stood up somewhat stiffly and went to put the kettle on.

****************

There were four of them now sitting round the table and Harry couldn’t help wondering if this wasn’t how it should always have been. Someone had once said they were unbalanced, that the Golden Trio should have been a quartet. Who had it been? Oh yes, Luna. So much of what Luna said was a peculiar mix of the profound and the profoundly strange.

_“You’ll struggle to restore the balance, Harry. You’ll never manage it as you are.”_ She’d made this comment to him one day, just after they’d left Hogwarts and had been sitting at this very table. Harry almost laughed at the sudden thought of how many of the most important incidents in his life had been discussed over this table. _“You need all of the elements to overcome the darkness and you only have three. Hermione is air; she is intellect. Ron is fire, passionate, heated; he can nurture or destroy with a fierce, unquenchable heat. You, Harry, are earth; steady, dependable, the protector of all. There is no water, though. You should make friends with a Slytherin, Harry. Water links air to the rest of the elements; it feeds earth, nurtures it; it quenches fire. Water links all the other elements; you need water for balance. Only then will you be able to overcome the Darkness.”_

Harry had never really forgotten her statement, but he had never really understood it either. Until this moment. Sitting beside his two best friends and the man he had come to love, suddenly everything fell into place and his world felt right….balanced at last. He couldn’t quite get over the newly-formed belief that Draco should have been with them all along.

Ron placed the teapot in the centre of the table along with a mismatched collection of mugs and tutted when he accidentally spilt a little milk. He mopped it up with a cloth when he placed a plate of freshly buttered toast beside the cups, snaffling a large slice for himself. Harry smiled; he had never noticed it before, but all at once he realised Ron resembled his mother quite closely at times. Not that he thought Ron would like to hear about this particular observation, especially after crying all over Harry as he had just done. So he kept his thoughts regarding his friend’s housekeeping skills to himself, directing his attention to Draco instead.

“You were fast,” Harry said smiling at his boyfriend. 

Harry had expected them to be away much longer. He wondered if perhaps Ron had thought the same, otherwise he might not have broken down so easily, not in front of Draco. Ron’s eyes were still red and he had the blotchy look that pale-skinned people seemed to get whenever they cried. He couldn’t seem to meet anyone’s eyes, but he was trying, Harry could tell. 

Harry watched as Draco’s gaze wandered nervously around the room as if searching for danger and his hands trembled as he clenched them together. He was obviously gathering himself to speak. Hoping to comfort his love, Harry reached out and covered the shaking hands with his own. He was rewarded with a small smile and he settled back to hear what was on Draco’s mind.

***************

Draco took a deep breath before he spoke again. “I needed to ask Hermione something,” he stated nervously in his new husky tones. “But it didn’t take as long as I’d thought. Now, I have something… something important… I need to share with all of you, too.”

In light of recent events Draco had come to the realization he needed to let Harry and his friends know about the prophecy. It had hung over him and guided his life for so long, ever since he had been old enough to hear it. Originally his father had told him Harry was to be his master. But when the Dark Lord had been resurrected his father had admitted to an error. Unbelievable as that may have been, Draco knew his father had been right. The Dark Lord was the master spoken of in the prophecy… he was evil incarnate. Harry on the other hand was not evil at all… he was good and kind and strong, and everything that Voldemort was not. A true prophecy could not be denied and the prophecy about Draco was undoubtedly true. It linked him inexorably with evil, didn’t it? It was the message his parents had spent years translating and retranslating; the message they taught him to believe in, and they taught him well… the cursed verse that tied him to the Dark Lord.

Now he had to tell Harry; Harry who had rescued him, supported him, looked after him. Harry whom he knew in his heart he loved and did not want to leave… ever. It would be a kind of test. Would Harry turn away when the prophecy was revealed, would he be rejected by the man as a spawn of evil? 

That was what he had needed to know so badly, what he’d wanted to ask Hermione. But in the end he hadn’t been able to reveal all the details. He’d just asked her whether she thought Harry could bear to hear something nasty about himself and whether Harry would turn away. Hermione’s advice had been to share his worries with Harry and to trust in the young Gryffindor’s sense of loyalty and honour; and so that’s what he was going to do. 

And now he had to spell it out for all of them.

“There’s a prophecy,” he began, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “It’s ruled my whole life; it’s why I was named Draco; it’s why my parents gave me to the Dark Lord. And the trouble is, Harry,” he glanced at Harry’s gorgeous green eyes before staring once again at his hands, “if it’s true, then it means we can’t be together.” 

He couldn’t say anymore, it was as if his throat had seized up. He swallowed and then swallowed again.

“Draco?” Harry said, “Are you okay?”

Draco shook his head.

“ _I can’t tell, you._ ”

Harry took Draco’s hands in his own again. “Draco, look at me.” 

Draco shuddered. He wanted to look somewhere else; he really didn’t want to tell Harry the prophecy – but he had to, didn’t he? He had to tell the truth, and whether Harry had meant it or not as such, that had been a command.

He forced himself, made himself, look at Harry, but there was such concern, such love in Harry’s eyes that he had to look away again, but that was okay, because Harry let him.

At last he began to speak once more. He closed his eyes firmly, refusing to be dissuaded this time; because it was better if he didn’t see Harry, if he didn’t see any of them. He didn’t want to see Harry turn away in disgust or in despair.

He began to recite the prophecy. It was barely more than a husky mumble; but at least, he told himself, he was speaking.

_“An old one… An evil one… will ensnare the dragon’s soul_  
Myrddyn’s legacy shall be reclaimed from the wicked flame of destruction  
The concubine will be enslaved to his master  
Doubled power, both great and awesome, will be wielded by the evil one  
He shall see all from behind a gemstone gaze  
and sweep all before him in a righteous rage  
Wrongs will be set to right and as it was, it will be once again” 

For several seconds no-one spoke and Draco sat there, listening to the sound of his own heart pounding. It was so loud he was sure they could all hear it.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” snorted Ron. Draco dared to peer at him through his lashes. The red-head looked totally bewildered.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Harry commented, sounding just as confused as Ron.

“Well, prophecies rarely do now, do they.” Hermione spoke this time and it was a statement not a question. “What on earth about that prophecy made your parents give you to him, to Voldemort?”

“ _That_ was what made them give you to Voldemort?” Harry again, sounding astonished. “How did they even know it was about you?”

“I’m the dragon,” Draco admitted softly. “The prophecy was made to an ancestor of my father’s. It was foretold that there would be a concubine in the family – and there hadn’t been, not for generations before me. And… and on my chest there is a birth mark.”

Harry nodded, he’d seen it. “It’s just some freckles. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It is a particular series of freckles, Harry, in the exact shape and number of the constellation Draco, or as the ancient Egyptians called it Draconis the Serpent, because it looked like a dragon to the ancient peoples. It was one of a group of constellations known as the Imperishable Ones because they never set on the horizon. It signified a great and lasting power. There are a number of stars in the constellation; Polaris, Cepheus, Ursa Minor and Draco, or Gamma Draconis, itself. That’s why my parents called me Draco.”

“But why would that make them give you to Voldemort?” Harry still looked confused.

“The power. Myrddyn’s legacy,” Draco explained. “Doubled power, everything restored to the way it once was. My father told me it meant that mud-muggleborns would be removed from the wizarding world, that things would be as they once had been. 

“But it doesn’t make sense!” complained a frowning Hermione. “It doesn’t even scan very well.”

“That’s because it’s translated,” said Draco huskily. His eyes remained fixed on Harry. He saw no sign of rejection, at least not yet. The emerald-eyed hero just looked puzzled. Hope flared in Draco’s chest; perhaps his saviour wasn’t going to reject him just because he’d been promised to the Dark Lord.

“Translated from what?” Hermione asked, still somewhat bewildered.

“Old English.”

“Can you write it down?” Hermione queried again, this time excitement entering her voice.

Draco felt confused. “Write what?”

“Well, the prophecy. Write down what you’ve just told us, this translated version; and then, if you have it, write down the original Old English version, too.”

Draco glanced swiftly in Hermione’s direction and could tell she was thinking hard about something no one else could see. He returned his gaze to Harry. “I don’t understand. It’s quite clear.”

“A bit too clear in places, if you ask me,” was Hermione’s comment. 

“What does that mean?” Ron looked even more puzzled.

“I just wonder who translated it. I mean, who would give their child to evil? Why would they? I mean I heard the whole power bit, but why would anyone trust something evil?” She looked at him, her brown eyes kind. “Draco, I think it’s perfectly dreadful that you have suffered so much because of a stupid prophecy.”

“But don’t you see?” Draco said bitterly. “I can’t be with Harry. I’m meant to be with someone evil; Harry isn’t evil.”

“No, Draco! Don’t you see?” Hermione again, impatiently this time. “Voldemort’s come and gone. The prophecy, at least this translation of it, is wrong. If you were meant to belong to Voldemort, then what was promised didn’t happen. Muggleborns are still here in the wizarding world, very prominently, in fact. And there was no sign of any “doubled power” on Voldemort’s part. Harry defeated him, and did it fairly easily with a very simple spell. And another thing, if you were supposed to be given to this Dark Lord, you would have bonded with him, but you never did. You bonded with Harry.” She ran a gentle finger along the tattoo that was clearly visible on Draco’s wrist.

“Is that what made Draco’s parents give him to that bastard? Some poxy prophecy that doesn’t even make sense?” Ron sounded disgusted.

Draco hung his head, not looking at anyone, confusion filling his mind. He had heard the prophecy every day since he’d been quite a young child, until he’d finally been given to the Dark Lord. He had expected to be rejected. He’d not expected the others to rubbish the prophecy instead.

The prophecy had ruled his whole life, had guided his future, was responsible for the treatment he had received as the Dark Lord’s slave. Upon first hearing of the prophecy from Lucius, Voldemort had been delighted; he’d had no trouble believing it. The promised power was meant to be his after all. So, in the beginning the evil wizard’s treatment of him had not been too unbearable, apart from the initial rape, that was. However, when no increase of magic occurred and when the promised powers failed to materialise with the passage of time, Draco’s punishments had begun. Enraged, Voldemort had taken his ire out on the failed concubine and tortured him with relish. Draco had become nothing more than a fuck toy, handed around, belittled and sneered at. 

He felt again those hands pulling at him, remembered what if felt like to be naked and bruised and so very alone. He hadn’t even seen his parents since the day of his claiming. He didn’t know if they were alive and living in comfort or whether the Dark Lord had punished them for Draco’s failings.

Draco could only imagine he had done something wrong. His soul was supposed to belong to the Dark Lord; his father had said so and what Lucius said was law. It was a lesson he had learned before he could even talk. Yet it was not until Harry’s arrival that the marks had appeared on his wrists, the twin of the ones on Harry’s wrists – just as Hermione had pointed out. 

Though once upon a time he would have vehemently denied it, Draco had always had a great deal of respect for Hermione’s intellect. If she said that the prophecy had been mistranslated, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was indeed the truth. 

Maybe it was never meant to be about him and the Dark Lord? Maybe it was about Harry and himself all along? But Harry’s powers hadn’t increased, had they? And Harry was as far from evil as it was possible to get. Unless… unless being with Draco made him so. 

Confusion turning to panic, Draco felt his breathing start to quicken and he began to tremble. He didn’t understand how the prophecy could have been so wrong, not when it had guided his parents, not when it had destroyed his life. The room seemed to be fading, spinning around him. Draco felt dizzy and sick. All at once strong arms wrapped around him and he was pulled tight against Harry’s chest.

“Oh, Draco,” Harry whispered as a gentle kiss brushed against Draco’s hair. “It’s alright, don’t worry. We’ll work it out. It’s just a stupid prophecy. There was one about me too; it ruined my fucking life as well. I’m never going to be ruled by one again. Nobody knows what they mean. They’re too fucking obscure. Besides, we’re bonded; the marks on our wrists prove that and you are not my slave.”

“ _I am in the eyes of the world_.” Draco couldn’t speak aloud.

“Fuck the world then,” Harry snarled, holding Draco tightly yet at the same time so gently that once again, if only for a short while, Draco felt safe.

When he had calmed down and regained some composure, Harry produced a pen and some paper and he wrote out the prophecy, both the translated version his father had given him and the Old English version he had memorized from ancient texts. Then he pushed the papers toward Hermione and went to curl into a ball on the couch. 

Hermione laid the two texts out and began to study them side by side. 

Ron insisted on making lunch, once again appearing to channel his mother and, much to Draco’s amusement, he pottered about, making lumpy sandwiches and cracking lame jokes. 

Harry didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He peered over Hermione’s shoulder for a while, making comments and asking questions until she shooed him away. Then he went to bother Ron.

Through-out the day he stopped to stroke Draco’s hair or touch his cheek or his back or his shoulder. He couldn’t seem to keep away. Draco curled up on the sofa and watched them, his new-found-friends and his… he wasn’t sure what Harry was… his master? His lover?

At one point Hermione went out, only to return, a short time later to study the prophecy notes even more intently behind a huge pile of books she had brought with her from the Black library. She seemed focused inward, nothing seeming to exist for her except her books and the two prophecies. 

When lunch was eaten, Ron stayed in the kitchen doing this and that and Draco took up a note book that Snape had given him. Writing things down really did seem to help.

It all seemed so normal, so hopeful and, as the day wore on and he wrote down more of his thoughts, the images of the tortures he had suffered receded again to the shadows. He didn’t quite feel happy; he still didn’t feel totally safe… the shadows were still too close. But he did feel better than he had felt for a very long time. Gradually his eyes grew heavy and Draco fell asleep.

***************

As the afternoon wore on Harry found himself becoming more and more unsettled. He felt a nagging concern, a persistent anxiety which seemed to sink into his very bones. It was hard to pinpoint but, put quite simply, he didn’t feel safe. And if he’d learned anything at all from his years battling Voldemort, it was to trust his instincts. All the things Kingsley had said kept reverberating in his head, echoing in his thoughts. 

He looked around the kitchen. 

Ron was whistling to himself as he made a cake. Harry had never realised that the redhead was so domesticated; though with a mother like Molly Weasley, he had probably learned household charms at her knee. Chuckling a little, Harry thought it was probably just as well that Ron was so capable, because if he and Hermione repaired their relationship then one of them would need to take care of the chores and he didn’t think it was likely to be Hermione.

Hermione was engrossed in her books, making copious notes. She kept frowning and tutting and even on occasion letting out a small chuckle. She obviously thought the prophecy was total bunk, which was good, as that was exactly what Harry thought. 

A prophecy that promised Draco to evil? What twaddle! Draco was obviously linked to him, to Harry. And the Harry he knew, despite what he’d feared in fifth year, was not evil and never would be. He had certainly killed Tom Riddle as society and prophecy had decreed – a creature so steeped in evil it had ceased to be human a very long time ago. 

But that part of his life was finished now, and all Harry wanted was a quiet life, a peaceful existence with his friends around him and a man that he was beginning to love beyond all reason. Normality was what he wanted… normality and a little happiness. But considering all that Kingsley had told him, Harry was beginning to realise neither were possible in the immediate future, not here in Britain at least.

He walked past the sofa on which Draco was dozing and gently brushed the back of his hand against the other man’s cheek. Passing on, he returned to the table and sat beside the brochures Kingsley had sent. Was this the future then? Yes, Harry decided suddenly as he shuffled through the pamphlets on Canada again. Some sixth sense was telling him he and Draco needed to leave England and it had better be soon. He was now determined they should go. He and Hermione had once discussed travel between countries and they had decided that International portkey would be the fastest and safest way to travel. Did he have to go through the Ministry for that though? Was it even safe to try with the way things were with Umbridge and her cronies? Would they even let Draco use a portkey? He would have to ask Kingsley.

Hermione huffed and turned a page, drawing Harry’s attention from his anxious thoughts. She had a smudge of ink on her cheek and her hair had come free from the loose pony-tail in which she had tried to subdue it. Ron’s cake was in the oven and he was busily washing up the dirty dishes, making crockery dance across the worktop and leap into sudsy water with a simple spell. Draco was awake and sat, cuddled in a corner of the sofa, watching them all with a look of near contentment on his face and a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. When Harry smiled at him, Draco sent him what felt like a mental hug accompanied by a small smile of his own.

The scene was comfortable and tranquil and a good approximation of what Harry had always sought. But instead of feeling good it felt all wrong; something wasn’t right and after so many battles Harry trusted his instincts implicitly. Everything felt too fragile, too insecure. Harry wrapped his arms around himself as his anxieties grew too strong to ignore. Under his clothing he shivered as he felt goose bumps rising and suddenly, for no apparent reason, his skin began to crawl.

**************** 

Kingsley Shacklebolt rushed back to his office. Marblethorpe had sought him out in the staff canteen with an urgent message from Snape.

The dark-haired man was sitting in his large leather chair, looking as imperturbable as ever. Kingsley supposed that all of Snape’s years of spying had stood him in good stead, allowed him to hide his emotions. If he didn’t know the man as well as he did he would never have noticed the agitation.

“Severus, what is it?” Kingsley asked as he rushed into the small, square room.

Snape turned to face him and for a second Kingsley thought he saw a glimmer of concern in those coal black eyes. The man was a hero. He had the highest security clearance. Since his part in the war had been discovered and made public by Harry, Snape had become celebrated. If he required entrance to the Ministry no-one would dare stop him. That’s how he could be here in Kingsley’s office and undoubtedly how he had heard something Kingsley had not. 

“Umbridge is going after Draco,” Snape said. “She has just appeared before a meeting of the Wizengamot and convinced them that ‘the concubine’ has ensnared the-saviour-of-the-wizarding-world. Orders have been issued that Draco be caged and chained, impounded for Potter’s safety. She’s taking a team of your aurors to Grimmauld Place in order to take him into custody.”

“She can’t!” Kingsley hissed. “It will destroy Harry.”

“I don’t think it will be any picnic for Draco either!” Snape commented dryly. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“We have to stop them.”

“It’s too late. They are gathered in the Atrium as we speak, ready to Apparate en-masse.” 

Upon Dumbledore’s death the Fidelus protection for Grimmauld Place had ceased to exist. Besides which, it had been a gathering point, a ‘war-room’, during the hostilities and everyone in the auror division knew where it was and exactly how to get there.

“I suggest,” Snape’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “that we join them. As members of the team, we might be able to mitigate their worst excesses.”

Kingsley nodded.

Hurriedly they made their way down in the lift. The Atrium was filled with aurors, all dressed in the dark blue uniform of the squad. Kingsley’s heart twisted. He wanted to warn Harry, to whisk him and the poor, broken child he had rescued far away. Harry had been through so much, given everything to save the wizarding world: his parents, his childhood, his godfather, his innocence. He didn’t deserve this and neither did Draco. 

Umbridge was making a speech, “…join me on this mission, and we can finally begin to rid the wizarding world of the insidious danger presented by these creatures. Today is the beginning, today we can start to rebuild our world.” 

If Kingsley had even begun to hope he would somehow be able to deflect these people from their ridiculous mission, his heart sank as he realised he didn’t stand a chance. They were fired up, ready for action. By championing a cause so many people seemed to support, the previously deeply unpopular woman seemed to have attracted a following. 

Her gaze locked with his own and she smiled at him in an oily way. “Ah, Kingsley, Severus, so good of you to join us. We are planning on paying a visit to Mr. Potter and his little pet. Are you coming along?”

“I do think I should be present, don’t you, Dolores? After all I am the Head of the Auror Division.”

Umbridge’s smile widened. “But Minister Scrimgeour appointed me in charge of this little mission. After all, Kingsley, you are so close to the Potter boy, and we wouldn’t want to cause you any emotional turmoil in an attempt to remain impartial.”

Kingsley bristled. “Are you questioning my loyalty to the Ministry, Dolores?”

Umbridge giggled, making Kingsley feel sick. “Of course not, we just thought you deserved a bit of a break. After all, you have been so busy with the recent battles against He-who-should-not-be-named. Of course you may join us – as an observer – both of you.” She finished her nauseating speech with a condescending nod in Snape’s direction but made sure not to make eye contact with the potions master.

Kingsley struggled to tamp down his temper. How dare the wretched woman insinuate that he was unable to lead a mission? How dare she insinuate that his impartiality was less than complete? Even though she might have a point when it came to how he felt about Harry’s safety and happiness. 

What chance did Harry have, after all, against such machinations? Harry was an admirable young man, someone whom Kingsley would have been proud to call son. He had been so touched when Harry had turned to him for advice, so happy to give any help he could. But he had misjudged the situation. He thought the Chosen One would have had a little more time than this. Who could have believed the Minister would order a raid on Harry’s home just a few short days after the boy had defeated the darkest wizard ever to curse these shores?

During all the battles against the Dark Lord, the Ministry had been next to useless. Now, however, it was using the public terror of Dark creatures to further it’s own agendas; terror engendered against these Dark creatures by their widely reported alliances with He-who-should-not-be-named; alliances that had been forced upon the various factions by their exclusion from fair and just treatment among the populations of the wizarding world.

Harry was right, there should be acceptance. Prejudice of any kind should be unacceptable but, as he had long known to his cost, the realities of life all to often had nothing in common with the way things should be.

“We will join you, Dolores,” he finally said. “After all, it is important that impartiality be upheld on both sides.”

Beside him, Snape’s lips curled into one of his infamous scowls. Umbridge’s smile faltered slightly. It seemed she knew she had made bad enemies in Kingsley Shacklebolt and Severus Snape, but she nodded at them both in a parody of politeness. 

Then, on the count of three, the entire group of aurors and assorted hangers on, Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

Number Twelve looked as shabby and ramshackle as ever, but a light shone cheerily from a downstairs window. Offering a welcome, perhaps. It was a small enough welcome, but something about it reminded the head auror of Harry, a slender young man who had stood firmly against a far worse darkness than this gloomy, badly lit square. Kingsley wished there was some way he could warn Harry of what was coming; and by the sound of the growling noise that Severus was making under his breath, his companion felt just the same. But their position at the back of the pack made any attempt impossible; the shoulders and backs in front of them seemed solid and insurmountable in their determination to keep Kingsley and his companion far from the centre of the action. Sometime soon these men would feel his ire and they would regret kowtowing to Umbridge.

One of the younger aurors, John Michaels, banged on the door and bellowed for the occupants to open up.

Kingsley closed his eyes and tensed. He could imagine the panic inside the house. The terror that Draco would be feeling, Harry’s anger. He tried again to move closer to the front of the group of aurors, but the sheer number of people in front of him prevented him moving forward. Umbridge had managed to collect more men together than he had managed on the final assault on He-who-should-not-be-named. His fingers wrapped themselves around his wand. If they didn’t get out of his way soon, he was going to start hexing people.

Suddenly there was an explosion and the battered front door of number twelve blew off its hinges. “Harry!” Kingsley muttered under his breath at the exact same time as Severus muttered Draco’s name.

The corps of blue-robed aurors surged forward as one, taking Kingsley and Severus with them. But before they had even reached the door, from inside the house there came a loud and furious scream.

**********

The scream had come from Umbridge, it had been a scream of unmitigated fury that embodied total frustration and anger. Kingsley reflected on the relief and pleasure he had felt upon finally entering the kitchen. Despite the surprise attack Umbridge had so meticulously planned, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had been completely empty of occupants when the hoards invaded. The kitchen Harry had once tried to make so homey was wrecked. Furniture was broken and overturned, crockery smashed. Dolores Umbridge had stomped from one room to the next cursing Harry Potter’s name. Of Harry and Draco, Hermione and Ron, there was absolutely no sign. The cupboards were all empty, books and personal possessions had vanished too. Kingsley knew, for he had searched very carefully himself, looking for a clue as to what might have happened to the Boy-who-lived and his companions.

It was now eleven-o’clock at night and Kingsley and Severus were ensconced in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. The Weasleys had been visited and interrogated but to no avail; the family steadfastly claimed ignorance of the whereabouts of Harry and the others. The Burrow had been searched, as had the twins’ flat in Diagon Alley, and even the tiny cottage belonging to Bill and Fleur. Even under Veritserum the family professed their innocence as to the current location of Harry, Hermione, Draco and, of course, of their youngest son. 

To say Arthur Weasley had been furious was the understatement of the century. Letters of protest had flown between departments at the Ministry. The Daily Prophet, meanwhile, had enjoyed a field day screaming about Ministry incompetence and bemoaning the treatment and subsequent disappearance of the hero who had saved them all from He-who-must-not-be-named.

Harry was gone, seemingly without a trace. Kingsley picked up the kettle that had been thrown aside and with a quick spell repaired the dent appearing on its side.

“Cup of tea, Severus?” he asked in a mild tone.

Snape smirked. “Why, I don’t mind if I do, Kingsley.” Between them they salvaged enough crockery for two cups of tea and cast Reparo on the shards.

Once the drinks were brewed, they sat at the battered table where, only the night before, Kingsley had advised Harry to make a new life elsewhere. Snape raised his cup.

“I think I am going to have to force myself to make a toast,” he said with a resigned sigh.

Kingsley raised one eyebrow, a trick he had in fact learned from Snape himself, many years ago.

“Are you, Severus?”

“I certainly am.”

“To the irrepressible and elusive Mr. Potter and friends. Wherever they are right now. I wish them good luck.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Kingsley said with a chuckle, and with no more ado he raised his glass and did just that.

**********


	12. Eleven - A Long Flight to Freedom

I couldn't have done this without the help of my wonderful beta and friend, Cyndie. She has been there, every step of the way. Thanks also to Claudia, who gave it a last read over. Sorry this took to so long, it was delayed by four Snarry one-shots and a smutty Harry/Draco. Chapter eleven should be up soon. *hugs* Lucie xxx

 

BTW the gorgeous pretty was made by the wonderful Bubba  
Thank you my love. xxx

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/quill_lumos/pic/0000qxqh/)

 

Eleven - A Long Flight to Freedom

 

The room was totally impersonal. A not-very-big double bed sat in the middle of a smallish square space. It was decorated in what were presumably corporate hotel colours with a bland, muddy-coloured abstract picture on the wall. There were also curtains and a couch in a migraine-inducing, matching pattern. It had a small bathroom with a very noisy machine of some sort, that Harry had said was called an extractor-fan. Draco sat hunched in the thinly upholstered bucket chair and shivered a little.

“You okay, Draco?” Harry asked. He had just made them both a cup of tea using water from the tiny kettle that stood on the purpose-built shelf.

Draco nodded and took his tea when Harry offered it. He grimaced at the taste.

“It’s the UHT milk.” Harry told him, obviously assuming Draco understood what he was talking about.

“UHT milk, what’s that?”

“It’s like normal milk but it’s processed to last longer. I agree though, it does taste disgusting.”

“How do they get it in those funny little pots?”

Harry shrugged. “They’re plastic. They get made in a factory, I suppose. They use machines for that sort of thing.”

“Who do? Muggles?”

Harry smiled. “Muggles are quite inventive, you know.”

Draco nodded. Grudgingly, he was beginning to realise this to be the case. He felt quite dizzy with all the changes that had occurred during the course of the evening. Just a short time ago, they had still been at Grimmauld Place. 

Thinking back several hours, Draco recalled how Harry had become steadily more unsettled as the day wore on, unable to sit still or relax. He had paced the kitchen, wrapping his arms around himself and muttering inaudibly until Hermione had finally forced him sit down and tell them what on earth was wrong.

“I don’t know!” Harry had said in a strained voice. “I just can’t seem to relax. Something’s all wrong... erm… yeah… it’s heard to explain but I just have this weird feeling we’re in danger.” 

Draco had figured Hermione would tell him to calm down and stop imagining things, but instead she had turned away from her books and asked him what he wanted to do.

Two hours later and they were here, in this Muggle hotel somewhere outside London, a place bearing only the slightest resemblance to any similar magical establishment Draco had ever seen. Not that he’d stayed in such a place. He had, after all, been brought up a Malfoy and Malfoys rented villas or stayed in the houses of friends, or, in dire circumstances, the houses of friends of friends (with letters of introduction). But he did recall visiting a couple such places on the few occasions his mother had condescended to visit acquaintances who were down on their luck.

Wrapping his hands around the white porcelain mug, perhaps seeking comfort or warmth, Draco took another sip of his tea and scowled. Harry had been right, it _did_ taste disgusting.

He was feeling more than a little stunned by the speed with which his life had changed yet again. But he also felt comforted by the fact that Harry seemed prepared to do anything to protect him – even pack up his home at a moment’s notice and move half-way across the world. He smirked a private little smirk at the memory of their hasty departure from Grimmauld Place.

After the prophecy discussion it had turned out to be a nice day, relaxed even, with Ron in the kitchen and Hermione studying as usual, and his Harry puttering around. Things had seemed okay all afternoon, that is, until Harry had begun to feel uncomfortable and then anxious. Ron and Hermione hadn’t questioned him when he’d said they had to leave, instead they had leapt into action and, without hesitation the three had made preparations to depart Grimmauld. The three house-elves had done much of the work, but Draco had been able to ignore them for the most part; he had stayed close to Harry or Hermione and the elves had mostly seemed to be elsewhere. At the end of an hour everything was packed, including Draco’s new books and clothes, and they had been ready to leave. The infamous Golden Trio worked together so well, it had taken no longer than that. 

Watching Harry at work gave Draco a real understanding of how Harry – his disheveled, easy-going Harry – had managed to survive as long as he had and then gone on to defeat the Dark Lord. He saw a whole new side of his rescuer with which to fall in love. Harry had seemed so certain, so determined, so powerful, no wonder people followed him so easily. 

Despite the flurry of activity surrounding him and the strangeness of it all, Draco had not been frightened, in fact, he had felt quite content. He hadn’t doubted Harry’s feelings of anxiety for he’d been able to feel them himself…rolling off Harry in waves. Although Draco couldn’t have said why his bond-mate felt unsettled, it really hadn’t mattered; it had been thrilling to watch Harry take charge, knowing that he was determined to protect Draco, no matter what. 

After all was in readiness, Hermione had side-along-apparated Draco to her parents’ house and Ron had done the same with Harry. Harry had never been to the Grangers, but Ron had. Once there, Hermione’s father, who had been very friendly and helpful, Muggle though he was, had driven them to this hotel. Later they were getting something called a ‘taxi’ to the hairport. Draco supposed that was where they were going to take a portkey to Canada (though what ‘hair’ had to do with a portkey terminal, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine).

From a prone position on the bed, Harry put his mug down on the wood-coloured bedside table, the movement brought Draco’s thoughts back to the present. Harry folded his hands behind his head and starred blankly at the ceiling. 

“Are _you_ all right, Harry?” asked a concerned Draco, noticing for the first time how tired the other man looked. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked a little drawn. Draco deposited his mug on the table beside the large black box (Harry had called it a ‘telly’) and went to sit beside Harry on the bed. He was unbelievably tired himself, far too tired for complicated explanations at this time.

“I’m fine, Draco,” Harry answered. “Can I help you? You look really tired. Do you want a massage or something?” 

Draco shook his head not accepting Harry’s offer. “No, it’s all right; I want to take care of you for a change,” he explained tentatively as he trailed his hand through Harry’s hair, catching stray strands with his fingers and tugging them gently, unwilling to let go. 

Harry smiled at him; he looked tired and pale, but Draco thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful as Harry was right then. This man was Draco’s hero. He had, quite literally, saved Draco’s life and his sanity. Harry was strong and brave and fearless, therefore, seeing his fragility like this was comforting to Draco, not to mention very attractive. It gave him a way of saying thank you, of allowing him care for Harry in his turn.

“You don’t have to,” Harry said, worried green eyes peering into Draco’s own. 

“I know I don’t, Harry, but I want to.”

Harry bit his lip and Draco knew instinctively there was something he wasn’t saying. But Harry didn’t have to speak, he didn’t have to ask for what he wanted, ever; Draco already knew exactly what his lover wanted as clearly as if Harry had shouted it aloud. He was slowly beginning to realize that his concubine instincts seemed to allow him to read every emotion and desire that Harry had. Draco thought it just as well, because he doubted Harry would ever ask…well, at least not yet. 

“Do you want a hug?” he asked with a sly smile.

Harry blushed and it was all Draco could do not to shower his dark-haired Gryffindor with kisses; but he didn’t feel he knew Harry well enough yet, despite their little session that morning. Harry nodded shyly, looking, in Draco’s opinion anyway, incredibly gorgeous and so very, very sweet. He couldn’t seem to meet Draco’s eyes, however, and Draco knew that what Harry had said earlier was true: he wasn’t going to push Draco at all. If Draco wanted more, and he was rapidly coming to believe that he did, it was going to be up to him to initiate contact.

“It’s okay to want to touch me, Harry. I want to touch you, too,” admitted Draco, shyly, laying a hand on Harry’s chest. “It’s lovely lying here beside you, even if we do have to drink this disgusting Muggle tea.”

Harry snorted, “Yeah, it is pretty disgusting. It’s this awful plastic milk.” Seeming to know he’d been issued an invitation, he turned his head and, almost apologetically, kissed Draco on the forehead then placed his hand over Draco’s, squeezing it gently. 

Draco smiled. He snuggled against Harry and laid his head on the other man’s shoulder. Harry stiffened and then relaxed, somehow managing to insinuate his arm so that it was both under Draco and draped around him, holding him close. Draco’s smile widened and he nuzzled against Harry, breathing in the delicious scent of him.

“Want to watch some telly?” Harry asked.

Draco stared at him, realising that Harry welcomed intimacy but only so much at a time. Draco didn’t really mind. He felt completely safe in Harry’s embrace, anyone else would have had him spread out and naked by now, anyone but Harry it seemed. There was just something about Harry, about being with Harry made all the bad memories and fears fade away. 

“I have to tell you,” Draco finally said, “I have no idea what you just asked me to do.” He looked up at the other man to see his reaction. He felt safe with Harry, to be sure; but he still didn’t know the man well enough yet to be totally confident of gauging Harry’s reactions.

Harry grinned.

“Really? One of the best bits of being in a Muggle hotel is lying in bed and watching the telly, not that I ever got to do it before. But Hermione says it’s fun. This thing here,” he waved a long, thin box-like object with buttons on it in Draco’s direction, “this is called a controller. Right, now, when I press this button, it turns the telly on and we can lie here and see what’s happening in the world and just relax a bit. I haven’t seen any telly for ages; I bet even the adverts have changed and I won’t recognise any programmes.” 

As far as Draco was concerned Harry might well have been speaking another language, but Harry was animated again and looked less drained, as he explained to Draco about the telly. So he snuggled a little closer and tried to look as if he understood what on earth Harry was talking about. 

“We could watch some news or a film or even a comedy, if there’s a half way decent one on,” Harry continued. “Knowing you as well as I do, I reckon you’re a BBC man.”

Harry pointed the ‘controller’ at the telly and suddenly there was a moving picture where there had been only a black, shiny window before. Draco gasped, he hadn’t been expecting anything that dramatic. Harry chuckled, obviously getting the reaction he’d been expecting. 

So Draco and Harry spent a cozy few hours cuddled together watching the telly.

 

**********

 

The dining room was, without a doubt, the strangest _place_ Draco had ever eaten in. In fact, everything he’d encountered so far in this Muggle world was strange.

Last night they’d had something called a _KFC_. Draco had thought it would taste horrible, it certainly hadn’t looked very nice. But in the end, it had been perfectly edible, just strange and there had been no plates, even the cups had been made out of some kind of stiffened parchment. But Draco had given up asking questions, not because Harry and Hermione didn’t answer him, because they did, sometimes at great length. It was simply that Draco didn’t understand the answers.

The _KFC_ was also called ‘fast food’, which was also strange because it didn’t move, not even a little bit. Draco had eaten it quickly, just in case it was lulling him into a false sense of security, but – no – it hadn’t even tried to escape. Draco had finally decided that Harry or Hermione must have spelled it as he was so new at this sort of thing and might not have the technique of catching it. He thought that was rather kind of them and truly appreciated it, after all chocolate frogs could take you by surprise until you were used to them; perhaps KFC was the same, and he had been very hungry and not at all inclined to chase his food around the room. 

They’d all eaten in Harry and Draco’s room, sitting on the bed with their KFC, and afterwards Ron and Hermione had left, because they had a room just like Harry and Draco’s across the hallway. Up to that point it had been the strangest _meal_ Draco had ever eaten. 

Draco had really enjoyed the ‘telly’, though, the night before. They had watched it this morning too. It had told them what the weather was like in Vancouver, which Draco thought particularly clever. Harry had watched a ‘channel’ called CNN, where everyone sounded strange and managed to be unbelievably perky for so early in the morning. Telly was a bit like the Wizarding wireless, only with pictures and Draco had decided that the ‘channels’ Harry talked about were equivalent to wireless stations. 

Draco found it totally confusing that magic photos moved but Muggle photos did not. However magic wireless had no moving pictures but Muggle wireless (aka ‘the telly’) did! If Muggles could make their wireless move, why were their photos so still? It was a conundrum Draco had a hard time trying to comprehend.

They’d watched the beebeecee for a while the night before, but it all seemed to be moving pictures of news items and Draco was horrified by how many wars seemed to be taking place in the Muggle world. ‘The news’ showed lots of images of fighting and death and bloodshed. Muggles had monstrous machines to help them kill each other and Draco couldn’t help being thankful that Voldemort had been so scornful of all things non-magical. He dreaded to think what might have happened if the Dark wizard had ‘glums’ and ‘tanks’ as Muggles did. They were horrible, no wonder Muggles called them glums, the way they shot each other full of holes with them. Draco shivered, remembering the worst images of the night before.

Until now, Draco had thought Muggles lived peacefully in villages, milling corn and tending sheep. But he’d been wrong it seemed, lots of them lived in tall cities made of glass and there were so many more of them than he had ever supposed could exist. 

Harry had ‘turned over the channel’ because the news had upset Draco so much. Then they’d ended up watching something called a ‘cartoon’ about a strange, yellow family named the Simpsons. That at least had made Draco laugh. ‘Bart Simpson’ reminded him of Harry when he was at school, or at least the way he’d pictured Harry, and there was a caretaker at the yellow children’s school who reminded him of a shrunken version of Hagrid and a teacher who might just have been a little bit like Snape.

The telly was the strangest _thing_ Draco had ever seen; and even long after Harry had switched it off for the night, he’d continued to see those peculiar images in his dreams. Harry said that Muggles watched a lot ‘TV’ (seemingly another name for the telly). People had ‘favourite programmes’ and became quite cranky if forced to miss them apparently, and they watched lots of ‘football’, a name Draco seemed to remember hearing in passing from one or two of the Muggle-borns at Hogwarts. Football was seemingly a game a bit like Quidditch only with fewer balls and no brooms.

But now it was morning and they were going to have breakfast, a girl had just taken their order for cooked food, but first Draco wanted to get some cereal. Harry had offered to fetch it forhim, but Draco was determined to do it for himself. He wanted Harry to be proud of him and see how much stronger he was becoming. However, when he got to the table, where everything was laid out and you could help yourself, it all looked so strange and he wasn’t sure what to do. Ron came and stood beside him.

“What do you reckon we do here, Draco?” he asked.

Draco shushed him; he was watching a woman with vivid purple hair and matching jump suit serve herself. She opened one of the little parchment boxes that were piled high on the table and then added the contents to one of the tiny china bowls, she added some milk from a glass container and went to sit down at a table by the window.

“That’s what you do,” Draco whispered back. “We should copy her.” The two of them looked over to where Harry and Hermione sat, drinking tea and discussing the day’s plans. Their friends were deep in conversation and Draco knew without asking that Ron didn’t want to disturb them either.

“Do you think this milk is real or do you think it’s that drastic-milk stuff again, like we had last night?” Ron whispered again.

Draco shrugged, so Ron’d had to drink drastic-milk too? That must have happened after they’d finished the KFC and Ron and Hermione had left. He didn’t think the word Ron had used was quite right. He thought the word began with a “p”, but he wasn’t quite sure and it was close enough, Harry told him that an awful lot of things were made of it. It could be hard and shiny like the telly or squishy like the little pots that held the milk. It could be all kinds of colours or clear like glass. Muggles liked things made of drastic, it seemed.

“I don’t know. I hope not,” was his whispered answer, although why they were whispering he didn’t know, as there were no other people within hearing distance of the cereal table. “It was totally disgusting wasn’t it?”

Ron nodded emphatically. “It’s not in those peculiar little pots, though, so I think it’ll be all right. Muggles are strange, aren’t they? I suppose they have to be inventive ’cause they don’t have magic, but this place is really weird.” 

Draco smiled. What _was_ really weird was bonding with Weasley, his erstwhile enemy, over drastic-milk and parchment boxes and Muggle peculiarities. 

Returning to his seat, Draco turned his attention back to his breakfast. The milk tasted fine, a little watery perhaps, but not drastic at all. Draco thought it must be because the milk was in a jug, just like it would have been at home, and not in those funny little pots. The bacon, eggs and sausages were tasty enough and the tea was fine, too. 

He sat, feeling strangely content, and listened to Harry and Hermione making plans and Ron asking questions. A girl in a green uniform kept coming up to them and topping up their tea and bringing more toast. He sipped the tea and ate the toast and looked out of the window at a very peculiar landscape of tall glass buildings and stunted trees – it looked just like some of the pictures on the news last night.

Draco let the conversation that the others were having about scaryplanes and timezones wash over him. He wasn’t worried about the scaryplanes, Harry would protect him, however scary they might turn out to be. He also had no idea about timezones but he was sure they didn’t matter that much either, and whatever jetlag might be…well, his Harry could take care of it, too.

 

************ 

 

Harry had never seen Draco’s eyes so wide or seen anyone look so astonished. Ever since they had arrived at the hotel the blond man had been astounded by everything. His hand had slipped into Harry’s on several occasions and he had stood far too close on several others. Not that Harry minded, he loved being close to Draco. 

He loved the way Draco gasped when the lift doors opened and the way he held tightly onto Harry’s arm as they entered the lift. He loved Draco’s reaction to the vending machine in the lobby and accordingly bought him far too many bars of chocolate. He loved Draco’s reaction to the TV and the little plastic cards that acted as keys to their room.

Seeing the world through Draco’s eyes made the mundane seem miraculous and, to add to Harry’s enjoyment, Ron was just as wide-eyed as Draco. Harry and Hermione shared several wry smiles and knowing looks whenever one of their companions gasped at something that they, themselves, had barely ever even noticed. It was like being with kids at Christmas. Of course, many of the things that so amazed Draco and Ron were new to Harry, too, as the Durlseys had never taken Harry anywhere if they could possibly help it. Nevertheless, he had managed to learn a great number of things vicariously. Harry imagined Draco and Ron were reacting just as he had on his first visit to Diagon Alley all those years ago, and he was enjoying the experience very much, indeed.

When they got to the airport Draco’s eyes grew impossibly wider. Hermione’s father, Peter Granger, had booked their flights online. Harry, Hermione and Ron already had passports – they’d had them for quite some time, just to be on the safe side – so it had been easy enough to use magic to replicate one for Draco. The blond man was clutching his passport to his chest as if it were a precious family heirloom, while at the same time staring round at the huge glass windows and acres of metal that made up the departures lounge at Heathrow airport.

“We have to check in and deposit the luggage first,” Hermione said, consulting a folder full of information, presumably provided by her father. Harry was more than content to let her take over. He was just happy to be leaving. He had no idea if his anxious concerns of the previous night and the urgent need he’d felt to leave Grimmauld Place had been valid or not. What he did know, now that they were on the move and had left the old house behind, was that those feelings were completely gone, leaving Harry free to feel relaxed and glad to let Hermione take command; after all, Harry had always found her to be excellent at taking on this sort of endeavour. 

By the time they were all settled on the plane, though, Hermione was definitely looking frazzled. They’d had a problem or two along the way: when Draco told the check-in-desk that he hadn’t packed his bags it had been done by house-elves; when Ron had enquired whether a wand counted as a sharp object or a weapon; when they’d lost Ron and Draco for a short-time in the gents toilets, the two wizards having developed a fascination with the automatic hand-dryer; and then almost lost them again when they discovered the endless fun that could be had on escalators. 

Ron fell in love with Coca-cola; he loved everything about it, including the bright red can. The Coca-cola made both Ron and Draco impossibly giggly and Hermione wondered out loud if purebloods might be allergic to sodium benzoate. Draco and Ron ignored her totally, especially after they discovered the delights of Muggle sweets.

Draco fell in love with Muggle shopping and they could hardly drag him away from the shops. Luckily Hermione had altered their hand-luggage so it could accommodate much more than it appeared capable of from the outside, but Harry had no idea what they were going to do with four cashmere scarves, two hats, several bottles of Baileys, four or five large paperback books, a very nice pair of leather boots, a Paddington bear cuddly toy and a small red plastic double-decker bus. Harry, of course, bought everything Draco showed the slightest interest in.

Whether they were allergic to E numbers or not, Ron and Draco both fell asleep almost as soon as the plane took off. They had spent some considerable time before-hand speculating about how planes flew and as Harry was fairly hazy on that point himself, and Hermione’s explanation was incomprehensible, Harry had merely sat and listened to them. Draco had squealed at the actual moment of take off and Ron had gone pale. Harry suspected that he was a little pale himself, as he’d never flown before. Only Hermione seemed calm and relaxed, giggling as Draco told Ron that he could understand now why Muggles called them scaryplanes.

Peter Granger had booked their seats on business class and Harry was sure he was as wide-eyed as Ron and Draco at all the apparent luxuries including the super-wide seats. Hermione, on the other hand, just brought out an eye-mask and earphones and went to sleep, too. 

As the plane arced northwest over the pole, Harry knew they had a long flight ahead of them, eight or nine hours at least; and still they would somehow arrive just an hour after they had left. Harry could barely get his head around it and Draco and Ron seemed to have given up completely as everything seemed to be totally miraculous to them. 

Harry found he couldn’t sleep so he sat in his seat and watched his friends as they slept. He acknowledged feelings of great tenderness towards them, especially Draco. Harry couldn’t quite put a name to what he felt for Draco. Was it love? He felt so protective of the young man, infused with a warmth he’d never known before, an absence of loneliness. He thought Draco was more beautiful than any person had a right to be; and by some miracle, for some reason he knew not, Draco was all his. Harry was awed by the magnificence of this precious gift, yet, at the same time, he knew what an overwhelming responsibility he was undertaking and that Draco was his to protect. He welcomed both the gift and the responsibility. It was as if Draco was meant to be a part of Harry, completing something inside of himself that Harry had not even been aware was missing.

As the time passed part of him wished Hermione was still awake as he would have loved reminiscing with her about how much fun the last few hours had been. The morning had been busy and bright and bewildering, but it had been rather wonderful too, showing Draco and Ron all the sights, looking after them, not to mention introducing them to carbonated drinks and dealing with the aftermath of such a treat. It had been a little fraught with worries at times, but he’d never once felt in danger and that had been enormously liberating. Harry had been in danger for as long as he could remember, but here in the Muggle world he felt ridiculously safe.

Another thought entered Harry’s head and he smiled widely: never once had anyone treated Draco as less than he was. They treated him as if he were just another (very good-looking) teenaged boy. He had garnered several admiring looks, especially from one particular (male) flight-attendant who seemed to enjoy checking out Draco’s arse. But no-one treated him like an animal and nobody seemed to turn a hair when Draco held Harry’s hand, just as he was doing now. 

What had impressed Harry all day was hearing…or perhaps feeling was a better word…Draco’s emotions: admiration, affection and possibly even something that might be love, coupled with trust and security. Draco’s thoughts and feelings were like being bathed in happiness, a happiness tinged with wonderment. At the same time, Draco was definitely feeling safe in a totally new and foregin environment - maybe even because he was in a new environment. This thrilled Harry beyond measure, because he knew he was at least partly responsible for the great strides Draco had achieved.

Just a few days earlier, Draco had been a scared, abused creature, terrified of everything. Harry didn’t understand how Draco had managed to recover so quickly or even whether his apparent recovery was permanent or whether it would melt away when they were settled in their new home, wherever that might be. He suspected it was a combination of an enormous inner strength, Draco seemed to possess in abundance and the strange bond between them, that so far remained shrouded in mystery. He vowed to make time to research it in Canada.

He didn’t know how he would ever repay Hermione and Ron, he looked over at them fondly. Ron had his head propped on a pillow and he was snoring gently, Hermione was curled-up under a blue airline blanket. Just one word from Harry, and they had dropped everything, putting their lives aside to follow him half way round the world in pursuit of a new beginning for himself and Draco. Who knew what awaited them at journey’s end?

Hermione had more than played her part in organising their flight and Ron and Draco had simply trusted him to lead them in their new life, through all things Muggle. But what the heck did Harry know about being a Muggle? He’d spent his formative years in a cupboard. Harry sighed. They’d just have to trust Hermione, who was currently fast asleep, snuggled in her seat, wearing something called a sleep-mask with the word ‘DIVA’ picked out in shiny sequins.

And, of course, Harry did trust Hermione, with his life, in fact. So far she’d managed everything brilliantly, which told him Hermione had probably worked something like this out years ago, as a contingency plan, just in case. But the reality of this whole adventure was still daunting: they knew absolutely nobody in Canada. 

However, they did have somewhere to go and that was somewhat reassuring. Harry had followed up the contact that Kingsley had given him. Therefore Johnston Shacklebolt, knew they were coming and was meeting the flight. Harry had rung the man just before leaving London and given him the details of their hasty departure and their flight schedule. Johnston sounded just like his brother on the phone, except that his voice had a warm Canadian twang. He had told Harry they’d be welcome and that he would find them somewhere to stay. Kingsley had talked to his brother, several days before-hand. He’d told Johnston all about Harry it seemed and Harry told himself that he would have to let the Auror know they were safe as soon as they’d arrived and then of course he would need to thank him.

But what if Johnston was nothing like his brother? What if Harry were currently dragging them half-way across the world to meet with the Shacklebolt who got all the psychopath genes?

“You okay, honey?” The stewardess was smiling at him. He liked this one; she’d given Draco a toffee when his ears had been sore during take off, and she had found him a pillow to snuggle into.

Harry nodded and smiled back.

“Tell you what, why don’t I bring you a nice cup of coffee? We won’t be serving dinner for ages yet. Would you like a blanket to snuggle under, like your friend?”

Harry smiled more widely and nodded again. It was wonderful being looked after like this. The stewardess obviously thought him younger than he was because she ruffled his hair and asked if his folks were meeting him at the end of his flight. Harry didn’t like to disabuse her; it wasn’t worth informing her that he was actually almost eighteen and hadn’t had any “folks” since he was a toddler. Besides, Kingsley’s folks were meeting them and Harry suddenly had the strangest feeling that things were going to be fine. 

Relaxing into his seat, Harry took stock of things. Today had been a good day. It appeared Draco would not have to cower and hide in this foreign Muggle world. He had not once been threatened or ignored or treated like some sort of animal and, therefore, had not turned to Harry a weeping, shivering mess. In fact, he had coped remarkably well with all things Muggle. 

As if hearing Harry’s thoughts, Draco’s eyes opened and he smiled a little blurrily, obviously still somewhat exhausted with all the new experiences. But his smile was so sweet that Harry could not help but smile back. He watched contentedly as Draco’s eyes grew heavy again with sleep and the boy slowly drifted back to slumber. Just as Draco fell asleep, Harry felt a wash of emotion course through his mate, a feeling of safety and of deep contentment. Whatever they might face in the next few hours, for now at least, Draco was happy and so, for the first time in a very long time, was Harry.

 

**************


	13. Twelve - Finding a Home

The next chapter at last. Real life is so busy these days that I never seem to get chance to update very often. Hopefully there will be another chapter much more quickly! Thanks to my darling Cyndie for ALL that you do. *hugs Cyndie*

 

 

If London had been dull and grey, Vancouver fairly sparkled with light and wide-open skies. At Heathrow, their hotel had been one of a row of dull buildings surrounded by stunted trees. In Vancouver, similar buildings were dwarfed by the sheer amount of space. It was also much warmer, a dry sort of heat. 

Standing outside the baggage claim area, the weary but excited group watched as a man approached who could be none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt’s brother, Johnston. Draco smirked. On the few occasions he had seen the austere Auror, the man had been full of dignity and usually clad in traditional and richly embroidered robes. His brother, on the other hand, was obviously cut from very different cloth.

He was wearing something called ‘shorts’ which were trousers that seemed to be cut off at the knee and on his feet he was wearing the most peculiar shoes Draco had ever seen. According to Hermione they were called ‘sandals’. The man was also wearing a t-shirt, like the ones Harry wore, except that it was much larger and very much _pinker_ than anything Harry would ever wear. It had a red and white flag over one breast with some sort of leaf motif. Draco had no idea what it meant, but that same symbol seemed to be in evidence everywhere he looked… not to mention on everything from flags and badges to packets of biscuits (or ‘cookies’ as they seemed to be called in Canada).

Johnston’s t-shirt also had words on it - as if the red flag thingy on a pink t-shirt wasn’t garish enough. They were bright red and scrawled across the chest. _**Canada eh!**_. Draco had absolutely no idea what that meant either.

Reaching the foursome, Johnston enveloped each of them with a hearty handshake and hug as introductions were made. He was by far the most cheerful man Draco had ever met. He chuckled at everything they said and everything _he_ said was drawled in a warm British Columbian accent.

Johnston herded them along to his car, which was thankfully much larger inside than it appeared on the outside. They piled in and headed west on Grant McConachie Way. Suddenly Harry squeaked, and grabbed Draco’s arm. ‘ _Oh my God! The wrong side of the road!_ ’ Draco couldn’t help smiling to himself, Harry just couldn’t manage to sit still and seemed as wide-eyed about Canada as Draco and Ron were. He pointed out all kinds of things that were new to him while peering out of as many windows as he could manage without actually sitting on Draco – not that Draco would have minded being sat upon by Harry. Only Hermione seemed to take everything in her stride and was busy reading a guide book she’d bought at the airport.

Johnston was pointing out various landmarks: the Van Dusen Botanical Gardens, Granville Island Public Market, all hustle and bustle, the glorious view to English Bay. Hermione and Harry were fascinated that the layout of the streets seemed so different from what they were used to, lots of straight lines rather than meandering alleyways. Harry was particularly fascinated by strange, lumpy things, situated at varying intervals on pavements or ‘sidewalks’ near the curb, apparently known as ‘fire-hydrants’. There were several different coloured ones, depending on which ‘district’ they were in. They drove past an imposing art gallery and then took a left and then right onto Burrard Street, past something called the _“Skytrain”_ , and finally left again onto West Pender Street. The car took them past tall glittering buildings that Hermione called skyscrapers. Draco could see why they were so named. There were tall buildings in London, lots of them, but somehow they didn’t tower as high as these buildings did… almost seeming as if they did touch the sky.

Finally they stopped in front of an enormous glass tower. “This is it,” Johnston told them jauntily as he manoeuvred the car into an underground car-park, dark and deep.

“This is what?” Harry asked.

Johnston stopped the car and turned to smile at them all benevolently. “Your new home.”

 

**************** 

Johnston introduced the new tenants to the guard at the lobby security desk on the ground floor and accompanied the four young people to the door of their new home. He then left them to explore on their own, saying he had to run a quick errand and would return shortly. With bated breath Draco followed his three friends as they used their key card and entered.

The flat, no, the _apartment_ , was awash with light flooding from an entire wall of windows curving around two sides of the large open living-dining-kitchen room, overlooking the bay and most of downtown Vancouver. To the left was a doorway to a den and down a hall were bathrooms and bedrooms. They were so high up it was almost as if they were floating in the air. Harry, Hermione and Ron, brave Gryffindors that they were, rushed forward to stare in awe at the panorama below. 

“Blimey!” Ron gasped. “This is awesome. It’s like flying, only without brooms.” 

Somewhat startled as his three companions rushed to the windows, Draco glanced timidly around the room. He was a little overwhelmed by the onslaught of light and space imposed on his senses. A feeling of vulnerability filled him. This place was so very different from anything he’d known back home. Certainly there was no sense of safety such as he’d begun to rely on back at Grimmauld Place, no matter that such safety had been a total illusion. However, he felt somewhat mollified, knowing Harry was right here with him, and even felt a modicum of security in the presence of Ron and Hermione – and wouldn’t that have shocked him even a day or two before?

Draco worked up his courage and, crabwise, edged his way over to stand side-by-side with Ron Weasley, a boy he’d once despised, and looked out over this wonderful new world. Ron was right, the view was incredible, totally incredible. Draco had never seen anything like it, ever. The whole of Vancouver seemed to stretch out before them. It was beautiful. Draco was enraptured by the panorama. Everything looked so tiny spread below them; there were so very many people out there, each one of them living their own lives, far away from the world of magic, not even knowing that magic existed. He also felt a little of his anxiety melt away, and with it a bit more of the horror that had stalked him for so long.

Before yesterday it had never occurred to Draco to wonder about Muggles. He’d always been taught that they were the most inferior of all beings (that is until recently when, thanks to Voldemort, he’d been taught that he, himself, was lower than even the meanest Muggle). But Muggles were amazing; that’s what he’d learned over the last couple of days. The hotels, the telly, the drastic stuff that Muggles made so many things from and the scaryplanes, each and every one of these things was remarkable in itself. But this! This amazing city sprawled below him – this was the most unique and incredible sight Draco had ever witnessed. It quite literally took his breath away. 

Mesmerised by the view of Vancouver, Draco continued to stare out the windows, ignoring the strange, tinny, bell-like noise echoing in the room behind him. This was a mistake, because apparently the sound issued from the apartment’s door bell and indicated a visitor. But then how was he to know because it was nothing like the door-bell Draco remembered from Malfoy Manor, in fact the sound was so unlike anything in his experience that it simply had not properly registered in his mind as an indicator of outside threat. Therefore he started violently upon hearing the approach of a person in the room behind him. He saw Ron turn around, from the corner of his eye, but he felt Harry turn and he heard Harry’s intake of breath. He spun around too, his breath coming in gasps and his heart pounding in his chest.

It was a woman who’d entered followed closely by Johnston, both with arms full of bags. Draco, however, could not take his eyes from the woman… perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that included his mother and Fleur Weasley. She had long straight hair, which shone blue-black in the steady sunshine; her skin was like the palest coffee and her eyes, eyes that were exactly the same colour as Draco’s own, glittered with light and warmth. She placed her bags on a table and approached. She was smiling at him with the brightest smile and looking at him as if she could see into the deepest part of his soul. 

“Hello, Draco,” she said. “My name is Melissa.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “I have been _so_ looking forward to meeting you.”

*************

Melissa Shacklebolt was Johnston’s wife. She arrived heavily laden with paper bags stuffed with groceries and Draco liked her immediately. He felt curiously drawn to her and wanted to find out more. She was tall, slim and elegant, especially compared with Johnston’s scruffy cheerfulness. When they’d undertaken their flight to Canada they hadn’t had much time to do a lot of research into Kingsley’s brother’s family and not much had been known at all. For example, he had not known what Johnston did for a living – he was a healer, a very different profession from the one that his brother had chosen. He hadn’t known what Johnston’s wife did for a living either; in fact, he couldn’t remember if he even knew that Johnston had a wife. It turned out that he did and she was the First Secretary to the Minister for Magic for British Columbia. 

In Canada each province had its own minister. Each minister sat at a Canadian version of the Wizengamot chaired by the Prime Minister. They were all sitting comfortably together on large pale sofas in the cozy room Johnston called ‘the den’ while they listened to Melissa informing them of this and other interesting facts as she told them about her country. Draco snuggled against Harry, warm and content, half listening to Melissa talk, partly looking around at the room in which they sat, admiring the beechwood floors and the cream walls.

Suddenly he tensed in shock as Melissa’s words rang crystal clear, answering a question he had not heard, “Oh yes, before you arrived, whilst your plane was in the air, we received an urgent message from the British Ministry of Magic petitioning the Canadian Ministry to apprehend one Harry James Potter, his two friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and one dangerous magical creature going by the name of Draco Malfoy.”

Draco stopped breathing. He _couldn’t_ breathe. He couldn’t get any air into his lungs. For a little while he’d thought himself safe; he thought that he and Harry would be all right in this place of bright light and magical glass towers. Reasonable thought fled his mind.

There was a thundering noise in his ears, his heart was pounding in his chest, he was gasping, still desperately trying to breathe. He was falling but barely noticed the sharp pain in his knees or the bang on his head, which jarred his teeth and neck. He tried to get to his knees as quickly as he could. All he could feel was the rising tide of panic which threatened to drown him. All he could feel was a phantom collar fastening, locking around his neck, manacles circling round his wrists, trapping him once more. From far away he could hear the rumble of voices, but he couldn’t hear what they said. All he could hear… the only words that penetrated his panic were the ones that Voldemort had said so often: _“Dirty animal, disgusting beast, filthy whore.”_

 

**************

The terrorised keening noise Draco made would never be forgotten by any of them. Ron was shouting at Johnston. At least Harry thought it was Johnston. Johnston’s wife, Melina? Melanie? was sobbing what sounded like an apology. The previously calm room had descended into chaos, awash in a cacophony of noise. But Harry hardly noticed; his whole attention, his entire being was focussed on Draco’s anguish, Draco’s pain.

“It’s all right, Draco. You’re safe. I won’t let them take you.”

“Oh God! I’m so sorry… it’s okay… you’re safe, you’re all safe.” A woman’s voice, _Melissa’s_ voice.

“She didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You should have been more careful. Look at what you’ve done.” Ron, angry, indignant.

“Calm down, Ron. Let’s go in the living-room for a short while, allow everyone time to calm down.” Hermione, as always the voice of reason, seemed to be removing everyone, giving Harry some space and time alone with Draco.

“Draco? Draco, love?” Harry pleaded. “Please, Draco, I’ll look after you. It’s okay now. It really is. I don’t know what’s happening, but it is safe here. I don’t know how I know, but we’re safe, love. We really are.” 

In the last few days Harry had become used to hearing Draco in his own mind. He’d been really careful not to ‘listen in’ as he thought of it, but feeling Draco’s growing sense of well being, his emerging happiness, the gentle joy he seemed to be developing in this new world, had brought Harry joy too. Joy and a sense of hope that Draco was recovering, could recover. Now he could feel nothing from Draco at all, nothing. Draco was shivering violently but his thoughts, his mind, seemed frozen in terror.

Harry was kneeling on the floor, resting back on his heels; he’d managed to half haul Draco into his lap. Holding him tightly with one arm, Harry stroked Draco’s hair in a desperate attempt to reach him. The concubine’s blond head was tucked against his shoulder and he was keening softly, a dreadfully empty, desolate sound. Harry barely noticed that he was rocking them both back and forth in an unconscious effort to comfort his lover, all the time continuing to stroke Draco’s hair, his cheek, the back of his neck. He felt rather than heard himself crooning.

“I’m so sorry,” a soft voice issued from the doorway.

Harry scowled up at Melissa, for it was she who had spoken. 

“I knew but… I didn’t realise how badly… or rather, how sensitive he still is about what has been done to him. Your friends have just told me things, at least they told me some things, more than Kingsley did, about the lasting affect it’s had on Draco. I’m so sorry. You are doing exactly the right thing, but he is so scared. Please let me help.”

 

Harry bristled at her, who the hell did she thing she was? It was her fault that Draco was like this. He’d been so happy earlier. “Haven’t you already done enough? Look at him, just look at him. He was fine and you’ve terrorised him!”

Melissa crossed to the couch and knelt down just a little way from the two young men. She just sat and waited, looking at him steadily, not saying a word.

Harry lowered his eyes trying desperately not to cry. He’d tried so hard to help Draco and they’d come so far but now he didn’t know what to do. Draco didn’t seem to be responding to him, didn’t seem able to respond. Harry wasn’t even sure if they were truly safe anymore. Were the Canadians going to return them to Umbridge’s mob? He’d trusted Kingsley’s brother, maybe foolishly, but he’d trusted him none-the-less. He glanced surreptitiously at Melissa. She certainly didn’t seem to be threatening them: they were not being arrested and there were no Aurors in sight.

“You are all safe here,” Melissa reiterated, trying to get through to them. “Truly you are. We will protect you, all of you. I promise you that.”

A sob escaped from Harry, despite his best efforts to prevent it. “How can you possibly help?” 

Melissa smiled at him, held his gaze with eyes that were the same colour as Draco’s. Harry gasped. How had he not noticed this before… her eyes were the _exact_ same colour as his lover’s?

Melissa’s smile widened and then she began to sing.

Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe. The music suffused the air, echoed in the vast space of the apartment, sank deep into Harry’s bones. He could feel it in his head, in his heart. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he shivered deliciously. He had heard this song before, back at Grimmauld Place. It was the one stored on Draco’s music globe. The one that, as far as Harry knew, was packed in Draco’s luggage, tucked safely away with the cashmere scarves and the red double-decker London bus they had bought at Heathrow. Yet the song was so different; it made the song that played on the globe seem a pale imitation, a shadow of the original. This song sounded full and rich and felt as if it was being woven in the moment, just for Draco and him, in the here and now in this bright apartment so very far from home.

It was very like Madam Butterfly and yet so different. Puccini must have heard it, been inspired by it, yet he could not translate it completely. There was a magic that infused Melissa’s voice, a lilt to _her_ voice that was not there in the Muggle version he’d heard before. His eyes filled with tears and he wanted to sob out all of his loneliness and loss. He felt all the fears and worries that had beset him for so long simply melting away as the melody unfolded. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Fleur not so long ago, when he’d asked if Draco would have been able to sing and had been told that Draco would have had the voice of an angel. This _was_ an angel, here in their apartment, soothing away their hurt.

Draco stopped trembling and his whimpering ceased. Instead of the nothingness that had been there only seconds before, Harry could feel instead a sense of wonderment, of tranquillity emanating from his concubine. Harry couldn’t see Draco’s face, but moments before it had been buried against Harry’s shoulder and now his head was turned towards Melissa Shacklebolt. His silky blond hair spread itself over Harry’s arm and he curled there, still half in Harry’s lap, relaxed and totally at ease.

After an age of bathing them in, and surrounding them with, the most awesomely beautiful melody that Harry had ever heard, Melissa finally stopped singing.

Draco sighed, but it was the sigh of someone who has been totally satisfied, whose fears have melted away.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” Melissa said gently. “You are safe here. I would never hurt you or let you be hurt. You know why, don’t you?” 

Draco had lifted his head a little to better look at the woman. He nodded.

“Yes,” he said, his voice once again hoarse and husky. “You’re one of us, aren’t you? You’re a concubine too?”

 

**********

 

Melissa helped Harry to get Draco back on the sofa. So far Draco had been, quite understandably, wary of letting people touch him. Melissa’s touch seemingly brought him comfort, perhaps even a sense of belonging, and was instantly accepted. Hermione and Harry, of course, had no problems and Harry remembered Draco had been fine with Fleur’s touch, although he hadn’t seemed as comfortable as he was right now with Melissa. But poor Snape, Harry had felt sorry for the greasy-haired, bad-tempered git when Draco had flinched the few times that his godfather had tried to touch him. 

Melissa pulled over a foot stool and sat as close to Draco as she could, taking his hand in her own slim brown one. Draco was looking at her hungrily. Previously, Harry, himself, was the only person he had seen Draco look at in that particular fashion and he felt annoyed with the pang of jealousy that bubbled up when Draco smiled adoringly at the woman who only moments before had apparently terrified him out of his wits.

At this point, Hermione entered carrying a tray of tea and some thick, Canadian cookies. She looked at Harry apologetically. “Hi, I… erm, thought you might want some refreshments?” 

Harry nodded at her and she placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the other sofa. Draco didn’t seem to notice her entrance, he only had eyes for Melissa. Ron and Johnston were standing at the doorway, both of them looking uncomfortable. Harry jerked his head in the direction of the sofa and Ron entered quickly, his face displaying obvious relief. He snaffled a cookie and sat down beside Hermione. A second later he was joined by Johnston, and Hermione poured tea for them all. Everyone seemed rather unsettled and a general air of malaise settled over the group. Harry didn’t blame them, in fact he felt somewhat unsettled himself. Draco’s panic attack had been pretty horrific.

Melissa ignored all of this, having, it seemed, eyes only for Draco.

“I am so glad to finally meet you,” she said, her gentle grey gaze locked with Draco’s. “I’ve been in a frenzy of excitement ever since Kingsley informed us you would be coming here. The whole ministry has been, in fact.

“Do you know how rare it is, the birth of a concubus? Just a very few in every generation. Concubine are rare enough, but males? Male children are so unusual. If you had been born in just about any other country in the world you would have been celebrated. If we had known of your existence, Draco, and how bad things were for you, we’d have come to get you regardless of national boundaries; we’d have taught you everything you needed to know. But we didn’t even know any of it, not until Kingsley contacted us. And I’m afraid we didn’t realise the severity of the effects on you. I’m sorry for being so insensitive. Please forgive me.” Melissa took Draco’s hand again and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“The Canadian Ministry has been worried about events unfolding in Britain for quite some time. It’s not just us either; the Americans, a number of European countries and Japan have all raised concerns about the regulations that are being passed in your country. Things have continued to deteriorate recently, especially after the second rise of Voldemort.”

Harry was astonished that Melissa said the dreaded name so easily. His surprise must have shown clearly because she smiled at him. “He was a murderer, a torturer… evil incarnate, if you will. But you killed him, Harry; nobody needs to be frightened of him anymore.

“What worries us now is the fact that his extreme views with regard to magical creatures, especially those with part human ancestry – like the concubine, for example – continue to have so much support with… certain factions of your government. Ever since the first war with Voldemort there have been disturbing reports about the rise of prejudice in Britain, about the restrictions imposed on magical humans and the cruelties imposed on part-human magical creatures. There has long been talk of imposing sanctions and penalties against Britain, just until they can demonstrate that the rights of all magical beings are being respected; as of yet, no steps have been taken. Recently, however, when knowledge of your existence, Draco, and what was allowed by the Ministry of Magic to happen to you became known, the International Magical Community was horrified. Word spread like wildfire around the entire magical world in a matter of hours. What happened to you, and is happening to people like you, is truly shocking. So much so that even the stodgy agencies of the world’s magical ministries are finally gearing up to take action against the British Ministry of Magic.

“I don’t understand.” It was Hermione who spoke. “Why have we heard nothing of this? It’s not been in any newspapers. I’ve travelled quite extensively in the last few years and have never heard even a whisper of sanctions.”

Melissa tore her gaze from Draco’s and looked over towards Hermione. 

“The most vocal opponents of the regime have only become more prominent in the last year. Fudge was not the brightest of men and he had many detractors, but no real enemies. He didn’t protect magical peoples, but he didn’t seem to be actively persecuting them either. Scrimgeour is different. He’s made a lot of enemies both nationally and internationally. Plus, forgive me Hermione, but have you travelled in the Magical world or the Muggle one?”

The confused look on Hermione’s face cleared. “My parents are Muggles,” she said. “I always go on holiday with them.”

“That might also explain why you didn’t hear the political rumblings.”

Melissa smiled at her and then turned her attention back to Draco. “I have arranged for all of you to be granted asylum. Sanctuary; this creates a very strong protection in the magical world. You’ll be safe here in Canada. I promise that you’ll _all_ be safe.”

Draco had been smiling gently just moments before, but when Melissa offered them sanctuary his face crumpled and he began to cry.

 

*************

 

Draco couldn’t believe it. He was safe, finally, at long last, he was truly safe… he and Harry, Hermione and Ron. Draco wondered if Harry knew exactly what a prize they’d been offered. Somehow he doubted it. Harry had strange gaps in his knowledge, like the music globe; things that were common knowledge to Draco seemed to have passed him by. Draco felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Harry was holding him, rubbing circles on his back, trying to comfort him. But Draco couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell Harry that he didn’t need to be comforted, couldn’t say that he was crying because he was happy.

“I don’t get it,” Ron interjected in apparent confusion. “I always thought… erm… I mean everyone knows that concubine…”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence, Ron.” Harry’s voice held a warning tone. Draco peered at the redhead through his lashes. His sobs had subsided, though tears still made gentle tracks down his cheek and Harry continued to hold him close.

He sighed. Draco didn’t resent Ron, not anymore. After all, he’d also been taught that concubine were inferior, and by the very harshest of methods. He could hardly believe that this woman was walking around freely, had such an important job, seemed so happy and so strong. He wanted to be like that; maybe now he could be. 

“Concubine have been treated badly in the past,” Melissa continued. “Across the centuries we’ve been raped, enslaved and attacked, so in most countries the concubine community has become quite reclusive… except for here… in the new world. In Canada there are so many cultures; it is such a melting pot of different peoples that concubine are accepted along with everyone else. 

I come from a very mixed family background. Most of my family are _Stó:lô_ – the ‘People of the River’ in English. The Stó:lô are the indigenous people of Vancouver. Our oral traditions explain that we have always been here. Archaeology confirms continuous occupation of our traditional territory for at least 9,000 years – since the last ice age. My own ancestral home is at Fort Langley, not far from here. There is a university at the reservation, teaching traditional myths and culture, and supported by a huge library. I’ll take you there in a day or two.”

Draco almost smiled; his tears had dried and he was snuggled against Harry, tucked close against his lover’s side. He saw Hermione stiffen with interest when Melissa mentioned the library and he was as sure as the day was long that she’d be off for a visit as soon as she could possibly manage it. 

“My grandfather is a concubus, a male concubine. He is accepted by the Stó:lô and still lives at the fort today. You’ll get to meet him when we visit the university.” Melissa took Draco’s hand in her own again and she squeezed it as she spoke. “You’ll like him and I know he’ll like you.

“Things are starting to change in Europe too. More and more concubine are being accepted there now; the old prejudices are dying. Only in Britain and one or two other places are things as bad as they were. Our envoys have been refused entry to the UK time and again and the situation only seems to be getting worse. 

“For years we’ve been trying to discover information on how many concubine lived in Britain and under what conditions, but with almost no success. About a year ago we heard a rumour about a concubus living in your country – that would be you, Draco,” Melissa smiled at the young man as she continued her explanation, “but could gather no further details... that is, until Kingsley contacted Johnston about you and your friends. 

“Horrified is hardly an adequate word for our state of shock upon hearing what you suffered; it should never have happened. I have already told you how the news travelled around the magical world. As for myself and Johnston, well, we were thrilled and delighted to be able to offer you an escape and asylum. It is indeed a pleasure to welcome you to our country.”

Draco’s heart ached. The thought of someone offering to help him, someone other than Harry and Hermione, and now Ron too, warmed him, touched him deeply.

“Kingsley said his sister-in-law was part Veela,” Harry commented suddenly, interrupting Draco’s thoughts. “He didn’t say you were a concubine.”

“Concubine _are_ part Veela, Harry,” Melissa told him simply.

“So Kingsley knows about you?”

“Yes, Kingsley knows.” It was Johnston who spoke this time. “We’re close, my brother, my sister and I. We were born in Jamaica, where the prejudices are not the same as in the UK. Kingsley doesn’t share the same beliefs about concubine that the British do. I would love him to move here. Our sister, Constance, lives in Calgary and we would all be together again if Kingsley would agree. But he’ll not leave; he has someone he loves very much, someone he will not leave behind… a very fine man named Severus.”

Harry stiffened in shock, causing Draco to look up at him. His lover looked quite comical with his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows trying to reach his hairline. 

“S-S-Severus Snape?” Harry stuttered. 

“Ah, of course, you must know him?” Johnston grinned. Harry nodded dumbly. 

“A very fine man,” agreed Melissa. She patted Draco’s hand gently. “I am so glad you’re here, Draco. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

She could obviously see how tired he was and he was very tired. The day had been a long and emotional one and all Draco wanted to do now was sleep. He smiled at her and nodded, then he burrowed a little closer to Harry, whose fingers were playing gently with his hair.

“I’ll see you out,” Hermione offered, bouncing up from the sofa.

Draco smiled again knowing without a doubt Hermione was going to question Melissa about the library. Draco wanted to see it too, talk to Melissa, finally find out more about the concubine race, get some answers. But right now he just wanted to sleep.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry said. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up?” He wrapped his arms around Draco and pulled him closer, placing a tender kiss on Draco’s head.

“Of course, don’t you dare move. You look after that boy for me, y’hear?” Her voice was warm and she was smiling again.

“I will. Thank you for your help, your support. It’s been good to meet you.”

“Thank you, Harry, Draco, for giving me another chance, after I frightened you so much.” 

Draco shivered, remembering the total terror that had paralyzed him. 

“S’okay,” Harry responded, squeezing Draco gently, seeking Draco’s assent to forgive Melissa. He leaned his head against Draco’s and Draco could almost see his lover’s quizzical expression; Harry looked so endearing when he was puzzled. “I should have guessed that you were the same as Draco,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “Your eyes are exactly the same colour as his. I’ve never seen that shade of grey before.”

Melissa laughed, it was a light and joyful sound. “Yes, Harry, we do have grey eyes, as all concubine do. They are not always exactly this shade but close enough. Our eyes are always the colour of our wings.”

Draco felt cold with terror. He heard Harry’s gasp of surprise, Hermione's exclamation and Ron's sharp intake of breath. He buried his face against Harry's chest, not wanting to face the others. How _could_ he face them? Just how much of a freak was he… _he had wings?_. How come he didn't know about them? It wasn't in Yang Guifei's book; he was sure it wasn't. They would surely turn against him now, wouldn't they? Harry wouldn't want such a freak in his life. But Draco had forgotten to take into account the true Gryffindor nature of his new friends and his new lover.

"Goodness, Melissa, you have wings?" Hermione sounded fascinated. Draco could see her in his mind's eye, leaning forward eagerly in her seat. "Can we see them? Will you show us?"

"Not today, Hermione," laughed Melissa and Draco could hear the smile in her voice again. "I think I should leave now. I think Draco has had enough of me for one day. I'll show you another time." She stood. "Goodbye, Draco, I'm sorry that I upset you so much." He felt her hand squeeze his shoulder but he couldn't seem to move, couldn't bring himself to look at her. He felt Harry's arms tighten around his waist and pull him close.

"I'll see you out," repeated Hermione.

"Wings, Draco? You've got wings?" Harry's voice sounded excited, interested and yet, at the same time, soft and tender. He didn't seem repelled at all. He was rubbing gentle circles on Draco's back once more, probably just where the wings would presumably one day emerge. 

Draco shrugged. "M-a-freak," he murmured, still not daring to look up. 

Harry took in a breath and was about to speak, but before he could say anything Ron beat him to it.

"Holy, shit, Malfoy! You're not a freak! You’ve got wings? You are such a jammy git!"

 

**************


	14. Thirteen - Settling In

This has been written for a while, but got held up by real life and fest fics. I am off on holiday on Friday, but I'll post another chapter before I go. Thanks to my wonderful beta and friend, Cyndie, without her my writing would be so much poorer. 

**Thirteen - Settling In**

 

In the morning, Draco still felt impossibly tired; they all did, come to that. Ron and Hermione came back from an early morning shopping trip laden with fat, tasty muffins and lattes in, what seemed to be, parchment cups then they all sat round the breakfast bar and decided what they might do that day. Nobody wanted to do very much. The previous day had lasted almost thirty-six hours and Draco finally understood what ‘jet-lag’ was. Although he had travelled quite extensively with his parents when he was a child, they had never really ventured outside Europe, which meant that he found this time change very peculiar. Evidently Ron was feeling much the same. Even though he had been to Egypt once before, he had never experienced quite such a time difference and he kept asking Hermione what time it was in London, or what time it was at the Burrow as if Britain had suddenly developed time-zones too.

Melissa had invited them to the university and its library, but it had been agreed by all that they needed a break, just for a day, with nobody but themselves to share it. As strange as it appeared to everyone, it had been Hermione who’d suggested a day of rest. Draco couldn’t quite believe it – _Hermione_ , turning down the chance to visit a _library_ , simply unheard of; but, then again, as Hermione pointed out, the library would still be there in two days time. It had still taken ages for Ron to cease saying ‘Blimey Hermione!’ again and again until Hermione snappishly told him to shut up.

Draco strongly suspected Hermione’s suggestion of a day’s respite was prompted by the fact that she sensed _he_ might need a day to just be himself; Draco couldn’t even begin to describe how grateful he was. Nevertheless, there were things he yearned to follow-up on in the next several days. He really wanted to see Melissa again. He wanted to find out about his wings and where they might be (he had Harry check his back on at least three separate occasions to see if they had sprouted yet.) He wanted to meet Melissa’s father, ‘a concubus,’ just like him… he hadn’t even known there were others like him alive in this day and age. He wanted to see if they could find out more information about the bond with Harry and just how closely linked they were and what it all meant. He’d read the Yang Guifei book from cover to cover but it hadn’t mentioned anything about wings, after all, so he wondered what else it might have left out?

But for today, it had been agreed they would be teenagers and not worry about anything. They would have a holiday, a whole day to eat ice cream and sight-see and just have fun, because none of them could remember the last time they had done such a thing.

Eventually, after slobbing around till late morning, scoffing muffins and drinking too much latte, they went out into the sunshine. It was so warm! Johnston had said Vancouver was a very wet place and got far more than its fair share of rain, but Draco had lived in Scotland, which not only got more than its fair share of rain but several other countries’ fair share as well. But however much it normally rained in Vancouver, for their first time in the city, the weather had decided to be glorious.

Ron and Hermione fairly bounced along, seemingly rather proud of themselves for having ‘discovered’ the coffee shop where they had bought the morning beverages and muffins. Draco privately thought they hadn’t pulled off that big a feat as the coffee shop sat very obviously on the corner out-side their apartment block but they proudly wanted to show Harry and him ‘the neighbourhood’.

Their first stop after the tour of the neighbourhood was a place called an aquarium where they saw the most fantastic sea creatures. Large windows of some thick drastic-type material opened onto tanks filled with brightly coloured fish; true to form, Hermione insisted on reading out copious details about each and every species they saw. As soon as they could, Ron and Harry slipped away and spent the remainder of their time in the gift shop where they bought everyone ‘baseball caps’ and a very large cuddly dolphin for Hermione, a rather awkward item which, for some reason, Draco ended up carting around for the rest of the day.

They lunched in a quaint little restaurant in a section of Vancouver called ‘China Town’, where Draco ate some of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. 

After lunch they visited an art gallery, the city library (it was too much to expect Hermione to pass up two libraries in one day), and Granville Island, where they bought enormous ice creams and scanned the sky-line searching for their own building and being too new to the city to be sure if they’d succeeded or not. Finally, they walked back home through Stanley Park. Occasionally Harry would take Draco’s hand or put his arm around him and pull him close and in this sunny, smiley city nobody seemed to comment or even notice. 

A few days previously, Hermione had told him there were some places in the Muggle world where prejudice against homosexuality was the norm and that he should be prepared for it, just in case. This was something that stunned Draco, and Ron too, because same sex relationships were so accepted in the magical world. They had then talked for a long time about the nature of prejudice and how ignorant it was; Draco was half convinced it had been this talk that had helped Ron soften his beliefs about concubine. 

After Hermione’s revelation, Draco was expecting to hear plenty of negative comments, as he thought it was very obvious that he and Harry were together – Harry couldn’t seem to stop hugging him and grabbing his hand… not that Draco had any problem with that! But in all the time he’d been in the Muggle world he hadn’t heard a single negative remark.

What astonished him even more was the fact that nobody here seemed to think concubine were inferior, because they obviously didn’t, not if Melissa were an example with which to judge. He thought Ron was probably as surprised as he was, but for some reason had not commented. He did notice that Ron had not taken his eyes off Melissa all yesterday evening; however, Draco didn’t want to risk the newfound accord between them by questioning Weasley and reminding the Gryffindor of his concubine status.

It was simply that he had gone from being a creature which was considered less than an animal, to just one of a group of friends in the space of only a few weeks. He told himself was understandable then, that the urge to kneel would strike him at the oddest moments or that on occasion he would feel a phantom collar tighten around his neck.

As the day progressed, Draco kept expecting someone to denounce them, either because he was a concubine or for their so-called ‘gayness’, and whilst he was enjoying the day, he could never fully relax. But nobody did, most people not even seeming to notice them. The few comments they did receive were directed to the group as a whole and were in reference to their English accents, which sounded ‘sorta cute’ to the waitress who served them coffee in a little café near the library.

If Draco could find any fault at all with the day, it was this slightly worrisome ‘expectation’ that lurked in the back of his mind, leaving him feeling rather anxious. So by early evening, whilst thoroughly enjoying the day’s excursions and all the places they had visited, Draco was glad to get back to their apartment. Although it still seemed very open and exposed, he was able to sink into relaxation in the perceived safety of the snug. He did notice, however, that the house-elves had arrived. Their new home gleamed, all their un-packing had been done, and a light tea awaited them at the breakfast bar. Of the elves themselves there was no sign, for which Draco was supremely grateful.

Dinner that evening was ‘take-out pizza’. It arrived in a large parchment – no, make that a large _cardboard_ box; Harry said it was called cardboard. Well, he did when he could speak again after nearly fallen off the sofa laughing at Ron who tried to eat the box in which the pizza had arrived. Draco, however, did not laugh; in fact, _he_ could not see much difference between the container and the contents, but he had to smile when he and Ron shared a sympathetic glance over the teasing of their friends. 

Once the pizza was opened, the four friends cuddled together on one of the large sofas in the den, eating and watching a ‘telly’ programme called the X-files. Ron loved the program and became even more excited when Hermione informed the group that it was filmed right here in Vancouver – she’d found out by reading the ‘TV Guide’. Draco couldn’t see the attraction himself, as far as he could tell the show seemed to be about a guy who lived in a grim basement and his grumpy redheaded partner. But both he and Ron still found it strange that Muggles made up stories and then made TV programs about the stories. He had confided to Ron, just the night before, that he’d first thought the telly was exactly like a wizarding photograph, showing people’s real lives.

When the program finished the four friends started discussing the events of the day and laughing over their many experiences. Draco snuggled against Harry and listened to the camaraderie and the ease with which everyone interacted and for the first time that he could ever remember, Draco felt included.

As a child Draco had not been allowed friends; the acquaintances he’d met in Slytherin House, who he might have called friends, had been few and far between, and none had survived beyond Hogwarts. But sitting here, in this cosy den, Draco contemplated his new friends and smiled to himself. It was a totally new experience for him to be allowed to sit like this with his ‘friends’; it had been a joy to walk freely around a city carrying a large cuddly dolphin and occasionally getting a hug from someone about whom he cared deeply. He would let nothing disturb this day: not the fact that he couldn’t quite bring himself to go out on the long balcony, which wrapped itself around several exterior walls. Nor the fact that he knew there were house-elves somewhere in the apartment, not even the headlines in the magical daily edition of the _Vancouver Star,_ could upset him. The paper seemed better than the Daily Prophet at least, but it still boasted lurid headlines declaiming Draco’s treatment in ‘war torn’ Britain and decrying the treatment of The Slayer of Voldemort and his ‘beloved partner’. Luckily the press only seemed to have copies of old, blurry photos, so he was fairly confident they would remain unrecognised, for now at least.

He sighed and snuggled closer to Harry, he liked this den and felt much safer here than in the wide-open great room. It gave him a warm, special feeling that the others understood this and had happily joined him, just like friends do, to eat and watch TV and talk about their day. Nobody laughed at him or sneered at him or belittled him for the fact that the former seeker of Slytherin was now too frightened to stand on a balcony and look at the view.

In time, cuddled next to his Harry and surrounded by a sense of security, rare in his life, and the buzz of friendly voices, Draco felt his eyes grow heavy and a yawn build that he just could not stifle. He drifted to sleep and awoke with a start some time later from a fragmented, half-troubling dream. Harry was smiling down at him.

“Come on, sleepy head,” he said softly. “Time to get you to bed.”

Harry took him by the hand and led him through to their beautiful bedroom and Draco couldn’t help hoping that they would stay in Vancouver forever because he was beginning to feel hopeful that one day soon, if he were allowed to stay here, he would truly begin to heal.

 

**********

 

The flat seemed deserted when Kingsley arrived, so he took off his hat and placed it carefully on the carved sideboard in the hallway, a nightly ritual that made him feel at home. Then he wandered through to the kitchen to help himself to some wine. He heard the shower running and smiled, Severus was home after all. The flat was mostly Muggle in design with very few magical additions. Bethnal Green was not a particularly fashionable part of London, never had been really, but it was everything Kingsley and Severus needed.

They’d been together in this same flat for almost fifteen years. They had first come together as a couple when Kingsley joined the Order of the Phoenix. He smiled to himself, awash with memories, and took a bottle of nicely chilled white wine from the fridge. Severus had been so prickly back then, it had taken Kingsley almost two months to get his first proper kiss from the man. He’d never had to pursue someone as hard as he pursued Severus, but something about the dark-eyed, taciturn man had drawn him, attracted him. Severus Snape threw up barrier after barrier, but Kingsley demolished them all in their turn and in the end he had got his man. He smiled as he poured a glass of wine for himself and his lover. The water stopped running, Severus would be through in a moment. He smiled to himself again, as he was reminded of Johnston, his brother in Vancouver, wasn’t that the motto of the Canadian Mounties? They always got their man, just as Kingsley had finally caught his lover. 

Right on cue, Severus came in, vigorously towel drying his hair. He was wearing a pair of soft, black sleep pants and an oversized sweatshirt top. The outfit was most definitely not Severus’ usual sort of apparel, yet he often wore such things here, in their place. It was as if he felt completely safe and relaxed in this flat, and Kingsley was very proud of that.

“Good day?” Severus asked, putting down the towel, taking a glass of wine and then leaning over and placing a kiss on Kingsley’s lips. “Mmm, Chardonnay, very tasty.” He leaned in for a longer kiss, placing a proprietal hand on the back of Kingsley’s neck and pulling him close.

“It’s getting better,” Kingsley chuckled, after Severus finally released him.

Severus smirked, “Glad I could oblige. How are our pigeons by the way, have they _roosted_ satisfactorily?”

“The eagle has definitely landed.” 

Severus took a gulp of wine and allowed his smirk, at their avian metaphors, to grow just a little wider. Kingsley thought he looked rather wonderful and desperately wanted to drag him off to the bedroom and ravish him. But Severus Snape did not loan himself to ravishment. He was deeply passionate, but formidably controlled and Kingsley had truly rejoiced in the few times he had seen Severus lose control in bed, had _made_ him lose control. 

Kingsley sat himself on one of the high stools at the kitchen worktop and poured another glass of wine as Severus started moving about the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, taking out ingredients for dinner. Kingsley loved watching the other man cook; Severus was so skilful when he cooked, his years as a potions master clearly showing as he chopped and diced using quick nimble fingers, long and slim. Kingsley had a sudden urge to kiss them, but contented himself with another gulp of wine instead.

He was relieved things were okay between them again – the row they’d had the night before was the worst he could ever remember them having. They didn’t row very often. They were, instead, a great support for each other, always had been. But their relationship had never been a fully open one, by necessity they’d always kept secrets. Severus had kept a lot of things from Kingsley, things to do with his spying; he’d had to. Kingsley had kept secrets because he was an Auror and could never risk telling Severus anything that could be tortured out of him. Thus, it transpired that he’d never told Severus the truth about Melissa, never thought to do so. He’d kept to the ‘party line’ that she was a Veela. In his turn, Severus had never told him about Draco. The resultant row about concubine had lasted most of the evening.

Severus had felt betrayed, felt he should have been told about Melissa; Kingsley had thought Severus to be a prejudiced arse. At one point, Kingsley had finally let his anger go when he realised the true depth of Severus’ feelings of guilt… guilt because of what he’d believed about Draco, guilt because he couldn’t help the boy. His heart ached now, when he thought of their angry words, words which had stained the atmosphere of their little flat, darkened it, like a cloud. While things were definitely better, they weren’t completely back to normal yet. Kingsley could still sense a small thread of strain between them. He sat and watched his lover, watched him tuck his hair behind one ear, watched his hand tremble, just a little, the only betrayal of Severus’ nerves, the tiny ‘tell’ that only he could recognise. Then Severus looked up at him and their eyes met again.

“Shall I put some music on?” Kingsley asked. 

“That would be nice. Some Debussy perhaps? Or some jazz?”

Kingsley chose jazz. Severus smirked to himself as the gravelly tones of Louis Armstrong filled the room. After placing the casserole he’d just completed in the oven, he stood and met Kingsley’s gaze once more.

“Good choice. May I have this dance?” he asked. 

Kingsley chuckled. “I expect I could be persuaded.” 

Kingsley stood and moved round the kitchen counter, and at the same moment Severus moved forward too, his eyes solemn. Dance was, after all, the mechanism that had finally brought them together, all those long years ago, how Kingsley had claimed his first kiss in a dimly lit cellar in Camden town, listening to the mellow tones of jazz. The chance meeting in an unknown place had been a catalyst in their relationship; in that dark cellar, by some miraculous circumstance, the barriers had broken down and they’d both recognised a kindred spirit and held one another for the very first time. In the smoky, dark room they had danced to hopelessly romantic sibilant tones, smoothly discordant excellence. 

They’d both been so lonely. Kingsley had felt so lost back then, his closest confident, Johnston, had gone, as had Constance, away to Canada. His mother had recently died and he’d desperately needed someone to turn to. Severus had been almost broken by guilt and sorrow, still carrying around the stench of a recent stay at Azkaban. But they had found each other in the privacy of the dance, therefore jazz was their favourite genre and this was their favourite song.

“I’m sorry,” Kingsley whispered tenderly into Severus’ dark, still slightly damp hair. Severus squeezed his hand in return, held Kingsley a little tighter around the waist.

“I’m sorry, too.” Severus’ voice was almost inaudible in the crescendo of music that was _A Wonderful World_.

Things were changing rapidly. Harry, Draco and the others were safe for now, halfway across the world. There were increasingly persistent stirrings, from other nations about the treatment of magical creatures in the UK and neither he nor Severus were under any illusions that things would even out, rather they were confident things were about to get very nasty indeed. The dramatic escape of The Chosen One and his friends had created a furore that was not about to die down any time soon. Even the _Daily Prophet_ , normally safely in the pocket of the Ministry, had been asking increasingly awkward questions, but Umbridge and Scrimgeour were not about to give up power easily.

The last few years had been stressful for both of them. They had both spent a lot of time and energy protecting Harry Potter to the best of their ability, keeping him safe, though not necessarily happy or content. But neither of them had ever thought to protect Draco. It had never occurred to Kingsley to search for the son of a Death Eater. Severus had believed the Draco he knew was lost when he’d been given to Voldemort, but he’d been wrong and Kingsley knew how haunted his lover had become. Severus might possibly never completely get over the guilt that ate away at him.

But for right now, tonight, they didn’t have to think about anything except each other. They just wanted to be together, to relax together and to push the world away; to mend the hurt their quarrel had caused. Kingsley closed his eyes and held his lover close and they swayed against one another, slowly, in time to the music, holding tight, enfolded in each other’s arms in a small, mostly Muggle kitchen in Bethnal Green.

 

***********

 

Halfway across the world, Harry held Draco just as tightly. The concubus was asleep, exhausted by their day. His lips had a gentle curve to them, very nearly smiling, and yet at the same time his forehead was creased in a frown; even content and replete after their lovely day, the blond man could not relax completely.

Ron was sprawled on the other sofa. It was a very large piece of furniture but Ron made it look small. He had reached the towering height of six-foot three in his red and gold Gryffindor socks. Harry at five-eight always felt dwarfed beside his redheaded best mate. Ron’s long limbs were akimbo and a mostly empty bowl of popcorn was cradled on his stomach, one or two kernels clung to the maroon Weasley sweater he was wearing and he was snoring softly with his mouth open. Harry felt a rush of affection for his friend; since their reconciliation a few days earlier, Ron had really tried to help Draco, befriend him… even if theirs would never be a natural friendship. Ron’s wide-eyed fascination of the Muggle world allowed Draco to be himself, to be more unselfconscious than he might otherwise have been. Harry had sensed Draco’s panic the night before, when Melissa had mentioned wings, but Ron’s reaction had stilled his fears. 

In so many ways Ron was a complete contrast to Draco. Whilst the concubus had now retained his own long, legged grace, his limbs were curled close. Ron’s body language was open and relaxed; Draco’s closed and defensive. Ron was still totally confident of his place in the world, just like Draco had once been; but Draco’s confidence and sense of self had been totally destroyed and it would take a lot of understanding and time to restore them. 

And yet, Harry was just now beginning to realise how much the boys had in common as well, now that he was seeing them here, together, in the Muggle world. Their reactions were so similar that they had reached a new understanding it seemed, therefore Ron’s reaction to the fact Draco would one day develop wings had reassured Draco like nothing else could have done. Harry smiled and then ran his hand over those slim shoulder blades, checking for the dozenth time to see whether any wings were emerging as yet, Draco still being somewhat disturbed by the whole idea. Not that anything _had_ appeared yet. Harry supposed they would find out more the following day.

“Want a cup of tea before bed, Harry?” Hermione asked, interrupting his musings. She stood up and stretched her arms wide, smiling down affectionately at Ron. They were still in the den, Draco’s favourite place, and perhaps Ron’s too, considering how comfortable he looked.

Suddenly, with a loud pop, Kreacher and Dobby appeared from nowhere, causing Harry to start in shock and Hermione to squeak with surprise. Kreacher was dressed in a smart new tea-towel printed with the picture of a moose and the words ‘Beautiful British Colombia’ in bright red letters, and Dobby was wearing a baseball cap, also in red, decorated with the ubiquitous maple leaf flag. Harry decided the Canadians must really like red. The elves had seemingly found the apartment with no trouble and done their own sight-seeing already. He had no idea how they had managed to get here, though, as the elves had been most evasive about their means of travel when they’d all been back at Grimmauld Place. They had simply packed up the house, assured Harry that they’d all be fine, and disappeared. Harry was glad to see they had arrived safely.

“Kreacher will fetch the tea, Master.” 

“And Dobby will help him.” Dobby glared at the older elf, obviously staking his claim in caring for Harry’s needs. “We needs something to do. We thinks this place is nasty – there is nothing for us to make cleaner, Harry Potter, sir!”

“It’s okay, Dobby,” Hermione said. “I don’t mind making it.”

“We wants to do it, Miss,” replied Kreacher, stiff and proper. “Master and his friends are tired. We wants to look after you all, especially the pretty dragon.”

“And Harry Potter’s Wheezey. He needs his tea, too.” Dobby looked fondly at a still slumbering Ron.

Hermione smirked at Harry, an honest to God smirk. She was obviously somewhat amused by the reaction of the little creatures. Hermione had mellowed considerably since they were at school. She still fought for the rights of all magical beings (she had been staunch in her defence of Draco, for example) but she had more tact these days. Still, Dobby was wary of her and, perhaps because of the uneasy alliance the two elves had formed, Kreacher also seemed to regard her with suspicion. The elves wariness towards Hermione might also have been because of her status as a Muggle-born but, whatever the reason, he had at least been very civil and respectful towards Hermione, at least since he and Harry had that little talk a few night’s previously.

Harry smiled at the elves. “Thank you both, tea would be lovely.” He hadn’t seen the elves since their arrival in Vancouver, and had avoided going in search of them for fear of upsetting Draco. “I’m so glad to see that you arrived safely. When did you arrive? Are you settling in okay?” Dobby grimaced and Kreacher scowled.

“We is fine, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said. “We has been here for a whole day now. We’s found a good space to make homey and we has unpacked, but we might gets a bit bored, cos there is nothing to clean.” 

“Well, maybe you all deserve a bit of a break,” Harry told them. 

The elves looked scandalised.

“We’ll gets the tea, Master,” Kreacher decided, then with a last fond look at Draco, he disappeared, followed a fragment of a second later by Dobby.

“They’ll be fine, Harry,” Hermione said. She sat back down, her arm resting on Ron’s thigh; she looked both proprietal and content. Her eyes had lost the haunted look that had been so noticeable over the last few weeks. She looked relaxed and, dare he think it, happy. Then Harry knew, without a doubt, he had done the right thing, for all of them. 

Vancouver was the perfect place to recover and to heal. Draco murmured in his sleep, Ron snored gently. The elves reappeared with a tray of tea and cookies and Harry and Hermione chatted idly. They talked about what they might do tomorrow, what they might find out from Melissa, from her father and from the library that the concubine had promised them access to. They talked again about their day and the fun they’d had, and the lovely apartment they had acquired, thanks to Johnston’s help. A little later, Ron awoke at almost the same time as Draco seemed to wake with a start and they trailed back to their rooms, being sure to leave the dishes for the elves to clear away. Harry took Draco’s hand in his own and placed a tender kiss on the long, slim fingers.

“Come on, sleepy head,” Harry chuckled. “Time to get you to bed.” 

Draco was rumpled and obviously a bit woozy from sleep. Harry thought he looked adorable and couldn’t resist pulling the man towards him into a kiss, and despite the fact that Draco was still half asleep, his lover kissed him back with a surprising amount of enthusiasm and passion.

Then Harry wrapped his arms around his concubus and pulled him closer and they stood beside the huge wall of windows that overlooked Vancouver, just watching the slumbering city. In the darkness a myriad of lights twinkled and sparkled, looking far more beautiful than any place had a right to look. Unaccountably, considering they were in a strange place thousands of miles from all they’d ever known, Harry felt that he had come home at last.

*************


	15. Fourteen - Learning to Fly

Snogs Super Cyndie, just for being so super.

Am away for a week's holiday now, but there should be another chapter in about two weeks. Thanks for all the lovely reviews, I promise I'll reply when I get home. *hugs you all*

 

Draco got to see Melissa’s wings every day for the next few weeks, though there was never any sign of his own. Despite trying everything she could think of, Melissa couldn’t seem to help him. Every night he went back to the apartment and meditated, hoping to visualise his wings, to ‘call them forth’ as Melissa suggested. Every day he did exercises and more meditation but nothing happened and it got harder and harder to contain his disappointment. He often thought that if only he could manage to produce his wings, then he could somehow be what he was meant to be… instead of the rather sad creature he thought he had become.

What use was he to anyone right now? He was still so weak, so easily frightened, so constantly frightened. He kept expecting the others to tire of him, to turn away. They hadn’t done so as yet, but he kept expecting it. He couldn’t get it out of his head that if only he could find his wings, then Harry’s friends would respect him rather than pitying him. 

After a week or so everyone stopped even mentioning wings, at least in Draco’s hearing; even Ron refrained from asking him how things were going, that most unsympathetic of Gryffindors having suddenly discovered empathy. But still Draco could not forgive himself for being so infernally weak.

“Wings are a part of what we are, Draco,” Melissa told him one morning, after he had been trying to produce his wings for almost an hour. “After all, we are not 100 percent human, we are also magical creatures. For too long wizards misused us, enslaved us, but we were never meant to be enslaved.”

Draco cringed, longing to ask her to stop repeating those phrases over and over because, right at the moment, he doubted he would ever produce wings, doubted indeed he even had them. 

To Draco she seemed so different from him, so sure of herself and of what she was that he was certain she had never been through anything like the experiences he had suffered. But what if she had, what if she had been through worse and just dealt with it better?

“It didn’t happen to you, did it?” Draco asked, almost scared to hear the answer.

“No, but my father was a slave, a long time ago, before he came here.” She paused and peered at him closely, as if he were more than worth the examination. Draco shivered. He wasn’t used to being studied so closely, at least not until recently.

When he’d been owned by the Dark Lord, he had been an object. His master’s Death Eaters would look at him, but only at his body, merely admiring the view, never seeing him as a person. Before that, he hadn’t been seen as himself either; he was the Malfoy scion, arrogant heir to an enormous fortune and a _pureblood_. He’d also kept his secret, the truth about what he was, so he hadn’t dared let anyone get too close. Harry looked at him closely… all the time, it seemed. But Harry’s look held such love and affection that it seared Draco’s soul. Severus looked at him as if he were a potions ingredient, a very expensive ingredient of which he was particularly fond, but he didn’t really see Draco. Hermione always, _always_ looked directly into his eyes, but even now her gaze was still tinged with pity. Ron looked away, somewhere in the region of Draco’s chest, although he was getting better; every so often these days he did actually look at Draco’s face.

But Melissa _saw him_ when she looked at him. She was a concubine herself, after all… she was like him. He thought she should probably understand him better than anyone, anyone other than her father, whom he’d yet to meet.

“Your father was enslaved?” His words were soft and when she didn’t immediately answer he wondered if she had heard him.

“How much do you know about concubine?” 

Draco shrugged. He had his book, but had come to realise that it didn’t seem to contain everything he needed to know, for example there was no mention of wings. That was it really, the book and the conversation he’d had with Fleur all those weeks ago, back in London.

He and Melissa were standing in the training room she had sequestered for them at the Langley Institute. Fort Langley was the home of the Stó:lô, _the people of the river_ , the indigenous people of this part of Canada. This was the room in which she had been attempting to train him, whilst Hermione explored the library and Harry and Ron hung out close by. She took his hand and led him over to one of the benches that lined the large airy room.

“My father was brought here as a young concubine slave in 1855. He was owned by a European wizard who was posing as a wealthy merchant named Sir Victor Montgomery, a man who came for the gold rush and stayed to rape the land. The Stó:lô freed my father when his master died. The story is that he upset the people with his treatment of my father.” She smiled, in a rather chilling way. “They might have helped him on his way to the next world; my people have never thought slavery to be acceptable. They adopted my father into the tribe. He was fifteen years of age and had been a slave for most of his life. That’s his story to tell and I know he will share it with you, little one. But he recovered and grew past what had happened to him and you will too, I promise. And part of that recovery will be the liberation of your wings.” She ran a long, slender finger down his spine and he shivered. “We’ll get there,” she stated, with far more confidence than Draco felt.

Draco shivered again and then turned to look at her. He had so many questions, not least, why her father had waited so long to become a father? She talked about him constantly, about his wisdom, about how much he would help Draco when he returned – but Draco hadn’t realised how old he was. Melissa was perhaps in her mid twenties… of course, she could be older, witches and wizards were so long lived and so youthful looking. Because she had mentioned her father so many times over the last few days, Draco had really been looking forward to talking to him. In fact, the man had gained almost mythical status for Draco, but now Draco didn’t know if he could confide in him. What would a Dumbledore substitute know about how he was feeling right now; the old man’s slavery had been so long ago.

Mordecai Walters had been called away and would not be back for some weeks. In preparation for their possible trip to Canada, Harry and Hermione had poured over maps to give themselves a better understanding of where they might go. From time to time Draco had given the maps a cursory glace too, he’d had no real idea how huge Canada truly was until then, so large that it took even a very powerful wizard some considerable time to travel from one end of the country to another. Draco used to think it was a long way from Wiltshire to Hogwarts, but in retrospect it was only the blink of an eye. Britain, tiny Britain, would get lost in the corner of a single province of the huge land mass that was Canada.

Mordecai had headed north, to Baffin Island, to see a member of his family who’d been taken ill and Draco would not meet him until he returned home. In this vast land even owl post travelled by relay and took many days. Several of his colleagues believed he was on the homeward journey, although no one knew for sure when he would return or whether he’d be able to help when he finally did.

“Father will be able to help,” Melissa told him confidently, time-after-time on each occasion that he failed. Each time his wings failed to put in an appearance, each time he flinched when someone touched him unexpectedly, each night when he woke up screaming, Draco’s doubts increased. He wasn’t sure that anyone could help him, even the apparently wonderful and all knowing Mordecai.

As the days passed and there was still no sign of Melissa’s father, and no change in the non-appearance of his wings, Draco began to suspect he was broken beyond repair. Until two weeks ago Draco had never even heard of Mordecai and now he desperately wanted to meet him. Would Mordecai be able to help them translate the prophecy? Would he be able to point out some books that Hermione might have overlooked in her research? Would he be able to help Draco move past the terror that he felt and try to forget the nightmares that plagued him and move on and build a life with Harry? He just didn’t know and the uncertainty was making him really, really anxious.

**********

Each morning Draco woke with his stomach churning and his mouth dry with nerves. Each day he prayed that today would be the day his wings sprouted, that today would be the day he wouldn’t jump violently when someone touched him when he wasn’t expecting it, that he would somehow become brave enough to go outside without clutching tight to Harry or Hermione or Ron. 

The bed beside Draco was empty and he assumed his Harry was out running as he did most mornings. The others loved Vancouver. They had blossomed and gained healthy tans – or rather, Harry and Hermione had, Ron looked set to become one giant freckle. They spent most of their time outside in Stanley Park or wandering around China Town. Draco wished he could be like they were, but he still felt buried by darkness and he couldn’t find his way out. He had hoped that in coming to Vancouver things would be different. He desperately wanted them to be different, for Harry’s sake.

Draco wanted so much to justify the sacrifices Harry and his friends had made for him. He turned over in the bed, still not completely used to soft sheets and a comfortable mattress, and then he sighed.

He was hard again. The third morning in a row. Harry wasn’t there, thank Merlin. Draco didn’t know what to do. What if Harry saw him like this? What would he do then? He’d been really good about not pressing Draco, not forcing him to do things that he wasn’t ready for. There’d been loads of hugs and cuddles and kisses and he’d told Draco over and over again that he was safe, that Harry wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t force him to do anything that he wasn’t able to do. But what would happen now? Draco was obviously very aroused. It wasn’t like he could hide it, after all, but if Harry saw... well then... well then, he might want more than Draco could give him. Draco burrowed deeper into the bedding; he thought that Harry was probably still out running, but what if he wasn’t? What if he came in and saw?

It wasn’t as if Draco could remember his dreams, so he didn’t know exactly how he became so aroused every morning. He just woke to that heavy, leaden feeling between his legs and he didn’t know what to do. What if Harry came back?

He lay quietly for a while, just listening to the silence of the apartment. There didn’t seem to be anyone in. Every day Harry and Ron went running, and that must be where they were now. They were trying to get fit, so they went to Stanley Park every morning and then came back laden with muffins and coffee, seemingly bringing the fresh air in along with them. Harry had wanted Draco to come too, but he’d just not been able to bring himself to wear the tiny shorts Harry’d brought home, nor the ‘jogging pants’ Hermione’d found – he felt too exposed in them. He hated being outside without Harry right beside him. He’d been fine when he was travelling. Harry or Ron or Hermione had been beside him at all times then, but when they went running together he would panic. He couldn’t bear to see Harry running away from him, the steady thump of trainer clad feet haunting him. What if Harry finally decided he’d had enough of Draco’s pathetic complaining and decided to turn him away, what would Draco do then? In London, it had been exciting and different. Harry had rescued him and looked after him, but Harry was a hero. What would he do when he discovered how boring Draco was, what would he do when he discovered that Draco was hard, every morning, and had hidden it from his master? Would he hate Draco then, would he turn him away?

Draco didn’t dare to touch himself. He could not quite break training enough to touch himself. The Dark Lord had forbidden it. Draco’s cock did not belong to him. Not that it had ever been a problem when he’d belonged to the Dark Lord, as the only way Draco had ever been aroused then was if his master had used a potion or a spell.

But Harry turned him on, or the thought of Harry did, anyway. Draco often thought back to that morning, several weeks ago, when he had brought Harry to orgasm. Harry had begged and trembled beneath him. His face had looked beatific as he came; he’d bitten his lip, his face flushed with a wash of perfect pink. Draco wanted to see that again. There had been nothing like it since. Harry held him plenty of times and kissed him, but never once had Draco been aroused. Draco knew Harry wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t fuck him until he could become aroused too. But now with the evidence Draco was beginning to recover, sexually at least, lying thick and heavy between Draco’s legs, Harry would surely want to make up for lost time. Harry was wonderful. He was everything Draco could ever have wished for, but he was only human and when he saw that Draco could become aroused… Draco let out a dry sob. He curled up more tightly, as if desperately trying to protect himself.

Draco didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t for a moment think that Harry would use force on him. He had never done that, he wouldn’t do that. However, a little voice, a secret voice, whispered deep inside him, ‘ _But what if he does?_ ’. Draco shuddered. Maybe if he had a cold shower? Maybe that would help?

He clambered out of bed. Harry would be back soon and he had to get rid of his erection by then. Draco thought of Harry, of the man he loved beyond all reason. But then he thought of Harry’s cock, thick and heavy and **big**. What if Harry saw how aroused Draco was, what of he wanted to… if he wanted to… the thought of something as big as Harry’s cock breeching him made Draco feel sick. His legs felt as if they didn’t belong to him. He felt shaky and weak, and between his legs, the evidence of his arousal. Unmistakable.

“Draco?” 

Draco started, violently.

It was Harry. He’d come from nowhere, his arrival causing Draco to cringe in terror. He looked wonderful to Draco, rumpled and slightly sweaty from his run, his dark hair plastered against his forehead, his green eyes sparkling with life.

Draco slowly turned around to face the man who had become his great protector and of whom he was currently, suddenly quite terrified. “H-Harry, I… er… I wasn’t expecting you.”

Harry frowned. “Are you all right, love?” 

Draco was trembling and he began, almost unconsciously, to back away. “Y-yes, I’m fine, just fine. Um… I just wasn’t expecting you back yet, that’s all.”

Harry cocked his head to one side, eyes sparkling now with curiosity and concern.

“Draco, what is it? I can **feel** that something is wrong. We’re connected, remember? I can’t hear your thoughts right now, but I can sense that you’re upset, frightened. What is it?” 

Draco couldn’t answer him, as much as he wished to, he couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t even think straight.

Harry crossed the room with a couple of long strides and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling him into his embrace. Harry looked down at Draco’s erection at the exact same moment that Draco pulled away and Harry frowned again.

“Draco, what’s wrong?” he asked again. “You’re hard, love. Are you aroused?” 

Draco let out a dry sob. This was it… he would be able to put Harry off no longer. Harry would demand his rights now, surely he would, and Draco wouldn’t be able to stop him. Not with such clear evidence of his own arousal.

“Hey,” Harry said, his voice awash with concern. “hey, love, what is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, his words sounding as cracked and broken as Draco felt.

“Why?” Harry asked, sounding mystified. “Isn’t this a good thing?” His hand brushed against Draco’s erection and Draco flinched.

“Oh…” Harry said, pausing for what seemed like hours to Draco. Then he asked, “Are you frightened that I’ll make you have sex?”

Draco stilled. He didn’t want to admit his fear, didn’t want to hurt Harry as Harry had been so kind to him. But Draco had seen the evidence of Harry’s arousal, felt it often enough against his arse in the morning, heard Harry moan in the shower, felt it through the bond. He belonged to Harry, despite what Melissa said about slavery being abhorrent, or Hermione or Harry for that matter. The truth was that Draco belonged to Harry and that Harry had every right to demand his body and Draco would not be able to refuse him. What use was Draco to anyone after all, if it wasn’t for sex? He couldn’t even produce his wings or accompany Harry whenever Harry needed him. Perhaps the Dark Lord had been right after all.

“Draco?” repeated Harry softly. “Let me help you, love.” 

He gently manoeuvred Draco back over to the bed and pulled them both down. Draco tensed. This was it. Harry was going to use him now, fuck him. But Harry didn’t. Instead he laid a gentle kiss on Draco’s head and pulled him down into a hug. His fingers started to play with Draco’s hair, smoothing it, twirling it, stroking it. Draco wanted to sink into Harry’s arms but he couldn’t relax. He felt anxious, like his skin was crawling with ants and he just knew any second, any second Harry was going to want to have sex.

But Harry didn’t move, except to pull Draco closer and to place another kiss on his head. He didn’t speak; he simply sat there, waiting.

Gradually, Draco’s heartbeat slowed down and the crawling sensation stopped. Harry’s calm and stillness made things feel better and he felt the terror gripping his body relax and fade away. If only Harry could hold him like this all the time, Draco felt he would be fine… he’d get better.

He let out a huge, quivering sigh.

“You feeling better now?” Harry asked, bestowing another kiss on Draco’s head. 

Draco nodded. He did feel better. He always felt better in Harry’s arms.

“Good, ‘cause I think we need to talk, don’t we?”

Draco stiffened, but he didn’t speak.

“Are you frightened of me, love? Because you don’t need to be. You know I’d never hurt you. Leastways I hope you do.”

Draco sighed again. Harry sounded so sad and he didn’t deserve to be sad, not after all he’d done for Draco.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry. I’m letting you down. Y-you’ve done so much for me.”

Harry placed gentle fingers on Draco’s cheek and turned his head gently so that he could look at him and Draco almost laughed. Harry looked astonished. 

“How do you reckon that then?”

“Harry,” Draco said, “I’m useless. I wake up screaming every night. I can’t bear to go anywhere on my own. I can’t even find my wings!”

“Oh, Draco,” Harry crooned softly. He tilted Draco’s chin up and kissed him tenderly on the nose. “You’re not useless. You’ve been through a really awful experience and you have a long way to go yet, so don’t worry about it.”

“But I do worry about it!” Draco bristled a little. “I’m no good to you at all at the moment. I’m pathetic. I couldn’t even bear to tell you that I’ve been having wet dreams, or that I’ve woken up hard for the last three days!”

“You have?” Harry sounded delighted. 

Draco winced and then nodded sadly.

“But this is great, Draco, this is so good. It means things are getting better, doesn’t it? That you are starting to recover?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I do feel better. I feel almost normal and then something happens and it all comes crashing back. I remember what I was, _what I am,_ and I feel so frightened. Like just then. I was terrified. I thought… that you might…” 

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t shout or get angry, though he must have known what Draco was about to say. He simply continued to stroke Draco’s hair and hold him gently. 

So Draco continued, “I was being silly. But it wasn’t like I was logical or anything… more like I couldn’t think straight. I mean, you’ve never hurt me, Harry, and I know you haven’t. And I know you wouldn’t, not ever. I’m safer with you than with anyone else, than with anyone I’ve ever known. I _do_ know that but…”

“It’s okay, Draco. It really is. It’ll take time to trust me. I know that.”

“How do you know that?”

Harry smiled. “Hermione got me some books on psychology. There’s something called post-traumatic stress disorder, and I read lots about that. I think you might have it, or if not, something like it.”

“A book?” Draco asked. Part of him felt uncomfortable about the fact that Harry and Hermione had talked about him, but another part felt warmed, cared for. 

Harry grinned, “It’s Hermione, remember… she gave me lots of books, with colour-coded pages and highlighted passages – oh, and copious notes from the books she didn’t think I needed to read.

Draco chuckled and buried his head against Harry’s shoulder and it felt so natural, so safe that he began to relax to a degree he rarely achieved. He sighed with contentment and wriggled a little closer to Harry’s warmth.

“What else did the books say?” 

“Just lots of stuff about what sort of support you might need, but you should read them for yourself, Draco.” 

Draco looked at him with wide-eyes. “You think I should read them?”

“Well you’re the one that might have PTSD. I… I just wanted to know how to help you, be there for you.” 

Draco felt warmed all over, like he had melted a little inside. For a brief second he’d been annoyed that Harry had read up on him, on his reactions. But then it struck him that Harry had done it because he cared, and more than that, he wanted Draco to have some responsibility for his own recovery. Otherwise, why would he suggest reading the books?

“The books are in the den,” Harry said. “I’d have given them to you earlier, but I’m afraid that I couldn’t put them down.”

Draco twisted round and pushed himself up on his elbow so that he could look at Harry properly. “You wanted to read all about me?” He sounded quite sardonic and not a little sharp. That surprised him because he didn’t think he was brave enough to speak to Harry like that; it surprised him that he felt he had the right to speak like that.

Harry blushed, a pale flush that suffused his cheeks washing them with rose madder like a watercolour painting. “Er… I _did_ ,” Harry said, “but then…” His blush faded as rapidly as it had come into being and green eyes looked directly into his own. “Draco, how much do you know about my upbringing?”

They lay next to each other for over an hour, Draco’s head resting on Harry’s shoulder, legs tangled together, whilst Harry told Draco about the wasteland that had been his childhood. Draco’s childhood had been wonderful, at least until the Dark Lord had risen again and his father had disappeared under the weight of his own madness and misguided zeal. But Harry? Draco wished the Death Eaters had not managed to kill Harry’s relatives, because he would have liked to do it. As Harry talked Draco had become cold with sheer horror, with shock at what Harry was saying. How could Harry calmly talk about the deprivation and cruelty he had suffered, especially when Draco felt he could happily go and rend apart the people who had locked a small boy away in a cupboard and thought it okay to do so.

“So, you see, Draco, I think I kept the books so long because they were all about me, too. There was all this stuff about kids who’ve been… who’ve had a difficult childhood. Stuff about them finding it difficult to trust adults, or loving too easily, or not being able to love at all, and some of that was about me, Draco. I couldn’t trust people at school… well, not the adults anyway.” 

He trailed off looking so sad, so woebegone that Draco couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and claimed Harry’s mouth in a kiss. He didn’t think about it, he simply reacted, but before he could stop himself or pull back, Harry was kissing back. Desperately, longingly, lovingly. 

Draco moved so that he was lying on top of Harry, his chest covering Harry’s, his hands holding Harry’s face. His leg inched itself so that it pinned Harry’s legs to the bed. Harry wriggled and Draco felt his cock grow hard again. It had softened when he’d lain in Harry’s arms, listening to him tell his story. But other than his tiny wriggle, Harry didn’t move. He responded, he followed Draco’s lead, but he didn’t try to take control. 

Draco grew braver. Feeling almost shy he gently nipped Harry’s lip between his teeth and then pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth, tasting, exploring. Harry smiled, sweetly, arching a little under Draco’s ministrations but not trying to stop him. Draco could feel Harry’s cock grow harder, but even then he didn’t try to push against Draco or hurt him.

Draco chuckled. He felt almost heady with glee. Harry wasn’t taking control, wasn’t forcing Draco to do anything; it had never been like _this._ for him before.

He went back to kissing, deepening his kisses, growing a little more forceful, then Harry groaned. The sound of Harry moaning beneath him was heady, exhilarating and Draco grew braver still. He shifted so that he was straddling Harry completely. Chest to chest, groin to groin. He couldn’t seem to stop kissing. It was wonderful. Always before it had been violent, intrusive, angry. But then those men hadn’t made love to Draco, they’d fucked him. It had been nothing like this, nothing like what he was doing right now. With Harry.

He let his hand trail down from Harry’s cheek, along his jaw, and down past his collar bone. Harry shivered and Draco smiled, just a little smugly. He was doing this. He was making Harry react in this way. His hand continued its journey brushing over Harry’s t-shirt covered nipple, which hardened under his caress. Harry shivered again and then he moaned. A long low moan that sent a thrill through Draco. A gorgeous sound, a sound which made Draco feel powerful. Harry’d made that sound because of him.

Draco let his hand trail lower. Harry’s t-shirt had ridden up exposing a flat stomach, tanned by the sun, and a perfect little navel, which made Draco’s mouth water. Harry had a happy trail, it ran from his cute little belly-button to Harry’s hard weeping sex. Briefly Draco froze, feeling Harry’s desire, but then Harry groaned again making that sound, the sound of his lover wanting him, wanting his ministrations. He smiled, just a little smugly. Harry moaned again and writhed beneath him. He had reached up and grasped the bars on the headboard. It was a clear signal to Draco that Harry would do nothing, that Draco was in charge. Not that he needed a signal, for he could _feel_ Harry’s pleasure. He was washed with feelings of intense pleasure, of such deep, tender love that, for a second, he could hardly breath. He couldn’t quite hear Harry’s thoughts as he knew Harry could with him, but Harry’s emotions infused him, buoyed him up with unaccustomed bravery.

Draco was on top, he was in charge, just as Harry had once said he would be. He moved his groin against Harry’s and Harry whimpered and moved beneath him once more. Draco felt like he was on fire. Before, he’d had to take whatever was forced upon him. Before, what had happened to him had been rape. The thought hit him like a punch to his solar plexus and for a brief moment he couldn’t breathe. He stilled, trying to get a hold of himself. He’d never made love. He and Harry had been intimate once, just once. But he hadn’t wanted it. He’d wanted to please Harry, make him happy, but he hadn’t been aroused like this. As he was now.

“Draco? Are you okay?” Harry’s green eyes were wide with concern.

Draco couldn’t speak but he nodded. “I… it’s just… I’ve never done this before. I’ve never made love like this.” 

Harry smiled at him tenderly and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Me either,” he said. “Well, not quite like this.” Then very softly, “Not with someone I love, like I love you.”

Something cold and hard inside of Draco melted. The lump in his throat disappeared, the pain in chest vanished, too, and all at once he was overwhelmed with love and warmth and something he couldn’t remember ever feeling before – lust. He wanted Harry, wanted to feel him writhing beneath him, wanted to hear again those sweet little sounds Harry had been making earlier. He pushed himself up so he could gaze down at Harry. “I love you, too,” he said and then he leaned down and claimed Harry’s mouth again, this time with more assurance and urgency. And Harry let him.

Harry’s mouth was hot and wet, it tasted so sweet. He could feel Harry’s hardness beneath him, then Harry writhed again and Draco felt like something exploded within him. They were rubbing against one another, cock against cock, Draco covered in cotton pyjamas, Harry encased in jogger pants. Fleetingly he wished that they were naked, but then Harry writhed again and arched against him; he whimpered again a pleading, _needy_ sound.

“God, Draco,” Harry whimpered. Then his dark-haired lover stiffened beneath him and he arched his head backwards into his pillow. His eyes were unfocussed, his lips were parted and his cheeks were flushed. Draco thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. Harry was having an orgasm and Draco had given it to him. 

Then the heat was overwhelming, heat and desire and want. He wanted Harry. He loved the feel of Harry beneath him. He had done this to Harry. He had made Harry beg and whimper and plead and it was as if the world exploded in light and Draco felt as if he were flying.

Then he was coming, hard and long and wonderfully, being carried away on a tide of bliss. He’d never orgasmed before, not like this. He had never known such total pleasure, such joy. Then, on the wave of bliss it was as if someone had slashed him open with knives. Sharp, searing pain tore through him as if someone had ripped open his back. Draco’s bliss turned to agony.

He screamed and arched up, away from Harry. Dimly he could hear Harry speaking, could feel sharp fingertips digging in to his shoulder-blades, Harry. Harry trying to restrain him, trying to bring Draco back down to him. 

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone. Draco felt unbalanced, as if something had destroyed his centre of gravity. He was being pushed back onto Harry by the weight of something that felt unnatural. He bit his lip and then shook his head to clear the dizziness. He opened his eyes and looked down. Harry was lying totally still beneath him, his lover’s eyes – because they were lovers now, Draco could finally admit it – his lover’s eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, staring at something above them both, something which cast shadows over Harry’s face and reflected in wide green eyes. “Draco, you have wings!”

 

*************


End file.
